^;^;;ii^ 


^    {.','. 
■^('-t/ ■•■}' 


.^c^ 


A  I'. 


^ 


-"^IWyi^'fe^^^-- 

'^^^nHm'  ''^f^-fi^  s^'-'Pi  ir'^i-^vSjjTri^^^' 

^f. 

^^C^i^HL^iryilHkc^i^flnr:! 

^~ 

^i"^JWi^^^^s&"^^^tJiiL-JH^K^ 

fe' 

-#^P^-  ("^^'^HBRts  JC|^M::W"- 

^gpffl  ^s;jB!^-  jgj^pi^;)'^^ 

^^"■"'^1  B  RAFlY       "- 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY 

or    ILLINOIS 

SZ3 

CSl4s 

V.I 

SIBYLLA 


SIBYLLA 


BY 


Sir   H.   S.    CUNNINGHAM,  K.C.I.E. 

AUTHOR  OF  'wheat  AND  TARES,'  '  DUSTYPORE,' 
'  THE   HERIOTS,'    ETC. 


IN    TWO    VOLUMES 
VOL.    I 


Hontion 

MACMILLAN   AND   CO. 

AND    NEW    YORK 
1894 

All  rights  resewed 


Love's  undoing 
Taught  me  the  worth  of  love  in  man's  estate, 
And  what  proportion  love  should  hold  with  power. 


C9lfs 


>!  V, 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER   I 

s 

PAGE 
BETROTHED     .......  I 


1^ 


CHAPTER    n 

AN   ELECTION  CAMPAIGN     .  .  .  .  .  I  5 

CHAPTER   m 

TWO  BROTHERS  .  .  .  .  .  -23 

CHAPTER   IV 

love's  ANXIETIES      ......  A  Q 

CHAPTER   V 

HONEYMOON .  .  .  .  .  .  '53 

CHAPTER   VI 

AN   ELECTION   EPISODE  .  .  .  .  .  J I 

CHAPTER   VII 

THE   LITTLE   RIFT      .  .  .  .  .  .  Q2 


vi  Sibylla 

CHAPTER   VIII 

PAGE 
THE  CAMPAIGN  OPENS  .  .  .  .  .        IO5 

CHAPTER   IX 

COUNSELS   OF  THE   NIGHT  .  .  .  .  •        13^ 

CHAPTER    X 

DAY  DREAMS .  .  .  .  .  •  .        I4O 

CHAPTER    XI 
five-o'clock  tea  ......      147 

CHAPTER    XII 

A   CASE   OF  CONSCIENCE        .  .  .  ,  .        163 

CHAPTER    XIII 

THE   COMMUNION  OF  SOULS  ....        lj<^ 

CHAPTER    XIV 

l'homme  serieux  .  .  .  .  .  .190 

CHAPTER    XV 

A  QUARREL      .......        20J 

CHAPTER    XVI 

A   BAD  story's   END  .  .  .  .  .        2l6 


CHAPTER    I 


BETROTHED 


The  world,  when  men  and  women  meet, 
Is  full  of  sage  remark,  nor  stints  to  strew 
With  roses  and  with  myrtle  fields  of  death. 

'  And  you  are  sure  ? '  said  Lord  Belmont. 

'  I  am  sure,'  said  Sibylla.  '  There  is  no 
room  for  doubt.  My  only  doubt  has  been 
whether  I  could  give  up  my  life  with  the 
dearest  of  fathers.' 

'  But  you  know  that  it  was  my  earnest 
wish,'  her  father  answered.  '  It  is  my 
earnest  wish  whatever  it  cost  me.  Your 
marriage  with  Montcalm  will  cost  me  as 
small  a  sacrifice  as  any  marriage  could. 
He  is  such  a  busy  man  that  you  will  still 
have  some  spare  hours  to  give  me.' 

'  Always ! '  said  Sibylla,  taking  his  hand 

VOL.   I  B 


Sibylla 


CHAP. 


fondly.  '  I  would  enter  on  no  life  that  was 
to  rob  me  of  that !  but  I  mean  to  be  a  busy 
woman,  too,  to  share  my  husband's  business 
— to  aid  him  in  politics,  in  society :  a 
woman  who  works  hard  can  do  so  much.' 

*  Some  women  can,'  said  Lord  Belmont. 
*  You,  Sibylla,  more  than  most  ;  I  have 
often  told  you,  efficiency  is  your  strong 
point.  I  have  always  imagined  you  a 
leading  figure  in  a  political  circle.  That  is 
your  role.  It  is  your  natural  domain  :  you 
will  rule  your  world,  and  your  world,  with 
Montcalm  to  share  your  throne,  will  be 
worth  ruling.  But  the  great  thing  is  that 
you  are  happy — thoroughly  happy.  He  is 
all  you  wish  .^ ' 

'  He  is  all  I  wish  ;  I  am  thoroughly 
happy,'  said  Sibylla,  with  a  rapt  look,  and 
a  tone  of  determination  ;  for  her  father's 
enquiry  seemed  to  throw  a  shade  of  doubt 
on  a  point  which  she  wished  to  be,  for  the 
future,  outside  the  possibility  of  doubt. 
'  He  loves  me  in  a  way  that  must  make  any 
woman  happy — in  a  way  worthy  of  him- 
self, worthy  of  a  noble  nature.  I  have  told 
him  what  1  feel.' 


I  Betrothed  3 

'  Then  he  must  be  happy  too/  said  her 
father.  '  Well,  Sibylla,  I  wish  you  joy — 
much  joy  and  peace — the  happiness,  greatest 
that  life  can  give,  of  happy  and  congenial 
married  life.  To  me,  too,  it  means  happi- 
ness. Charles  Montcalm  is  everything  that 
I  could  wish,  though  I  cannot  share  his 
political  enthusiasm ;  but  then  I  have  been 
too  long  outside  politics  to  be  an  enthusiast. 
But  he  fills  a  great  place  ;  he  will  rise 
higher  still.  He  is  ambitious  ;  his  ambition 
will  be  gratified — one  great  part  of  it  is 
already  gratified.  He  has  succeeded  ;  he 
will  succeed.  A  charming  wife  is  the 
great  success  of  life  ;  she  makes  other  suc- 
cesses inevitable.' 

Charles  Montcalm  was  not  a  man  whom 
it  would  be  easy  to  despise  as  a  son-in-law. 
His  character,  his  position,  his  achievements 
made  him  remarkable.  He  belonged  to  a 
distinguished  set,  and  enhanced  its  distinc- 
tion. By  years  of  steady  devotion,  by 
regular  attendance  in  Parliament,  by  ex- 
ceptional mastery  of  several  important  sub- 
jects, by  an  occasional  speech  of  special 
merit,  he  had  achieved  a  first-rate  parlia- 


4  Sibylla  chap. 

mentary  reputation.     Everybody  who  knew 
anything,  knew  that  when  his  friends  came 
into  power  Montcalm  would  have  the  offer 
of  office,  and  that  he  was  not  in  office  only 
because  no  good  enough  place  was  available 
for  him.     He  was  entitled  to  a  seat  in  the 
Cabinet,  and  it  was  certain  that,  when  the 
time  came,  he  would  have  one.     Meantime 
he  was  influential  in  debate.     His  attacks, 
weighty,    well    conducted,    well    reasoned, 
carried     consternation     into    the    enemy's 
ranks.       His     passionless,     deliberate    de- 
meanour   did    not    mar    the    effect    of  his 
speeches  ;  for  a  secret  vein  of  passion  some- 
times   broke    to    light    in    phrases    which 
glowed  with  volcanic  fire,  and  burnt  them- 
selves   deep    in    the    popular    recollection. 
His  youth  had  been  passed,  as  a  younger 
son,  in  laborious  preparation  for  a  diplo- 
matic  career  ;    but   his  elder   brother   had 
disappeared  in  painful   circumstances,  and 
his  death,  a  year  or  two  before  his  father's, 
had  made  Charles  Montcalm  the  heir  to  a 
considerable   fortune.     He  was  ambitious, 
and  his  wealth  and  position  commanded  all 
that  society  could  contribute  to  the  grati- 


I  Betrothed  5 

fication  of  ambition.  They  justified  him 
in  aspiring  to  a  brilhant  match.  And  his 
engagement  to  Sibylla  Belmont  was  brilliant. 
Her  father  was  a  great  man,  in  the  best 
sense  of  the  word — greater  than  the 
common  multitude  supposed,  who  never 
read  his  name  among  the  active  leaders  of 
the  day.  In  his  youth  he  had  been  for 
some  years  in  the  House  of  Commons,  and 
had  once  been  in  a  Cabinet.  But  an  in- 
superable modesty,  perhaps  some  constitu- 
tional indolence,  had  tended  to  keep  him  in 
the  background.  He  shrank  from  active 
participation  in  public  life.  He  was  pro- 
foundly interested  in  it,  but  it  was  the 
interest  of  the  philosopher,  who  looks  on 
and  watches  the  game.  He  had  no  wish  to 
play  it.  Since  his  wife's  death,  ten  years 
before,  he  had  lived  in  retirement, 
in  the  society  of  a  few  choice  friends, 
who  appreciated  his  rare  gifts,  and  with 
the  companionship  of  his  daughter.  His 
judgment  was  greatly  prized.  The  leaders 
of  his  party,  politicians,  hot  from  the  bustle 
of  the  fray,  came  frequently  to  consult  an 
adviser   whose   insight  was   profound,  and 


Sihyllc 


CHAP. 


who,  removed  from  actual  combat,  took  a 
cooler,  more  discriminating  view  than  was 
possible  for  themselves. 

His  appearances  in  society  had  been 
fitful  and  rare.  Some  winters  he  had  passed 
in  Rome,  some  on  the  Riviera.  In  London 
he  had  slowly  and  with  difficulty  forced 
himself  from  the  quietude  in  which  the 
earlier  years  of  his  sorrow  had  been  passed. 
They  lived  much  in  the  country.  Sibylla 
had  been  well  content  with  the  occasional 
gaieties  which  accident  threw  in  her  way, 
and  with  a  circle  of  chosen  friends,  who 
frequented  her  father's  house  and  table, 
whenever  opportunity  offered.  Lord  Bel- 
mont was  not  a  man  whom  his  friends 
found  it  easy  to  forget. 

Her  father,  meanwhile,  devoted  himself 
to  Sibylla's  education — that  higher  education 
which  is  not  concerned  with  information  or 
accomplishments,  and  which  transcends  the 
domain  of  masters  and  professors.  Under 
his  guidance  Sibylla  had  become  a  most 
cultivated  woman  ;  she  had  read,  she  had 
learnt  to  think.  Nature,  without  any 
external  assistance,  had  taught  her  how  to 


I  Betrothed  7 

feel.  She  was  now,  as  her  father  made  no 
secret  of  thinking,  a  delightful  companion. 

'  I  hope  to  help  him,'  she  said,  as  father 
and  daughter  discussed  the  husband's 
prospects  ;  '  that  way  ambition  lies.  It  is  a 
joy  to  me  that  we  feel  alike  about  my 
engagement.     We  do,  do  we  not,  father  ^ ' 

'  I  am  not  in  love  with  him,'  said  Lord 
Belmont ;  '  but  I  am  well  content  that  you 
should  be.  Since  you  are  happy,  Sibylla,  I 
am  happy  too,  though  he  robs  me  of  one 
great  source  of  happiness.  But  I  will  not 
be  selfish  ;  I  believe  that  I  can  forgive  him 
more  easily  than  I  could  any  of  his  compeers. 
I  esteem  him  sincerely ;  I  admire  his  ability, 
his  character,  his  tone.  I  shall  welcome 
him  as  a  son-in-law.     Ah,  there  he  is !  ' 

'  Then  I  will  escape,'  said  Sibylla. 
'  When  you  have  finished  your  talk  you 
will  send  for  me.' 

She  embraced  her  father  tenderly  and 
quitted  the  library  by  one  door  as  Montcalm 
entered  by  another, — a  man  of  high  breeding 
and  noble  presence,  a  classic  brow,  fine  blue 
eye,  a  self-possessed  manner,  as  of  one  who 
was  accustomed   to  feel  himself  master  of 


8  Sibylla  chap. 

the  situation,  who  has  learnt  to  confront 
opposition  with  coolness  and  to  deal 
composedly  with  great  consequences.  He 
was  now  feeling  extremely  shy,  but  even 
Lord  Belmont's  eye  could  detect  no 
symptom  of  shyness.  Nor  did  he  himself 
betray  it.  They  were  both  too  accomplished 
in  social  diplomacy  to  let  a  hint  escape  ; 
only  they  greeted  each  other  with  a  marked 
cordiality  that  bespoke  a  special  occa- 
sion. 

'  Sibylla  has  just  been  telling  me,'  said 
Lord  Belmont,  '  that  all  is  well  between 
you.  I  cordially  wish  you  both  joy.  It  is 
a  pleasure  to  me,  my  dear  Montcalm,  to 
welcome  as  a  son-in-law  the  son  of  so  old 
and  dear  a  friend  as  your  father  was  to  me  ; 
you,  too,  are  an  old  friend.' 

'  Your  son  for  the  future,  Lord  Belmont,' 
Montcalm  said  with  fervour  ;  '  I  began  my 
apprenticeship  in  public  life  under  your 
guidance.  You  have  helped  and  advised 
me  a  thousand  times.  I  am  delighted  to 
owe  a  fresh  allegiance  to  the  man  I  honour 
most  in  the  world.  You  know  how 
sincerely  I  speak.' 


I  Betrothed  9 

*  I  know  it,'  said  Lord  Belmont ;  '  I  will 
return  the  compliment  by  saying  that  I 
cordially  rejoice  in  Sibylla's  happiness.  1 
resign  her  to  you  cheerfully.  I  can  say 
no  more.  There  are  things  one  cannot 
talk  about.  She  has  been  my  constant 
companion  of  late  years,  a  delightful,  a 
most  delightful  one,  the  great  solace  of 
existence.     May  she  be  as  much  to  you.' 

*  I  am  confident/  said  Montcalm,  in 
measured  tones,  '  that  she  will  be  all  that  I 
could  wish.  I  know  of  what  I  am  robbing 
you, — how  much,  how  dear.  You  must 
forgive  me  ;  I  will  try  to  deserve  it.' 

There  was  something  in  Montcalm's 
reply  that  jarred  on  Lord  Belmont's  nerves, 
and  did  not  encourage  him  to  proceed  with 
his  panegyric.  Montcalm  had  touched  a 
wrong  note.  He  was  unable  to  respond  in 
Lord  Belmont's  key.  He  was  sincerely  in 
love  ;  but  companionship  as  the  one  solace  of 
existence  was  not  the  form  of  bliss  to  which 
he  looked  forward  in  marriage. 

'Public  business,'  he  continued,  'involves 
so  much  solitude — many  matters  that  one 
must  deal  with  alone.     It  is  one  of  its  many 


lo  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


misfortunes.  One  charm  of  your  position 
must  be  that  agreeable  companionship  is 
more  achievable.  By  the  way,  you  have 
heard  about  the  Dissolution.' 

'  No/  said  Lord  Belmont,  '  I  am  out  of 
the  way  of  hearing  anything  except  such 
crumbs  of  gossip  as  good  friends,  like  you, 
are  charitable  enough  to  bring  me.  Is  it 
settled  ? ' 

Montcalm  assumed  a  serious,  almost  an 
impassioned  air.  '  I  speak/  he  said,  sinking 
his  voice  a  little,  '  in  the  most  absolute 
confidence,  and  for  your  ear  alone,  but  it  is 
settled.  I  have  leave  to  tell  you.  It  is  not, 
unless  anything  unexpected  occurs,  to  be 
this  autumn.  It  may  possibly  be  next 
spring.  It  was  decided  at  the  Cabinet 
yesterday — a  momentous  decision,  in  my 
opinion,  for  I  believe,  when  the  next  election 
comes,  we  shall  be  beaten  ;  and  if  we  are 
beaten,  we  shall  have  chaos.' 

'  Let  us  hope  not,'  said  the  other.  '  I 
have  seen  many  dissolutions,  and  some  bad 
defeats.  Chaos  has  frequently  been  pre- 
dicted. It  has  never  come  off.  Perhaps 
we  may  be  as  useful  out  of  office  as  in, — 


I  Betrothed  1 1 

sometimes,  I  have  thought,  even  more 
useful.' 

'Surely  not,'  cried  Montcalm  ;  'I  confess 
I  look  with  absolute  horror  at  the  men, 
whose  influence  would  be  paramount,  who 
would  govern  the  country  and  ruin  it — for 
it  would  be  ruin,  the  ruin  of  all  one  cares 
about.  No  effort  must  be  spared.  I  go 
to  Scotland  the  day  after  to-morrow  for  a 
fortnight's  canvassing.  It  is  an  old  engage- 
ment, which  does  not,  however,  in  existing 
circumstances  make  it  any  the  pleasanter. 
I  have  a  big  meeting  on  Wednesday.' 

'  Then,'  said  Lord  Belmont,  you  have 
no  time  to  waste,  meanwhile,  in  discussing 
politics,  and  I  have  no  right  to  monopolise 
you.  We  will  let  Sibylla  know  that  you 
are  here.' 

Having  despatched  Montcalm  to  his 
tete-a-tete.  Lord  Belmont  sat  alone  and 
reviewed  the  situation.  The  prospect  was 
not  altogether  exhilarating.  His  daughter's 
engagement,  —  always  contemplated  as  a 
disagreeable  probability,  had  come  at  last  as 
a  shock.  It  meant  the  end  of  many  pleasant 
things — of  things  which  had  grown  dearer 


12  Sibylla  chap. 

to  Lord  Belmont  as  years  went  on.  It 
meant  the  loss  of  congenial  companionship  ; 
it  meant  something  that  he  dreaded — a  life 
of  domestic  solitude.  Nor  was  Lord 
Belmont  wholly  without  solicitude  as  to  his 
daughter's  happiness.  It  was  impossible  to 
object  ;  the  match  was  one  to  which  no 
reasonable  exception  could  be  taken.  Mont- 
calm's position  was  all  that  could  be  wished ; 
his  private  character  above  reproach  ;  his 
social  standing  excellent  ;  his  parliamentary 
reputation  of  the  highest  ;  yet  Lord 
Belmont  was  surprised  that  his  daughter 
should  have  come  to  care  for  him,  could 
now  feel  certain  that  she  loved  him.  For 
one  thing  Montcalm  was,  Lord  Belmont 
felt,  too  complete  for  human  love.  The 
ninety-nine  just  men  who  need  no  repent- 
ance, stir  no  such  joy,  we  know,  in  angelic 
breasts  as  the  single  repenting  sinner.  The 
same  thing  is  true,  no  doubt,  with  mortals. 
Montcalm  had  nothing  to  repent.  He 
produced  on  Lord  Belmont's  nerves  a  sense 
of  uninteresting  perfection.  He  had  no 
weak  points,  no  pleasant  shortcomings,  no 
amiable   infirmities  such  as  incline  one  to 


I  Betrothed  1 3 

unbend,  to  show  one's  weak  side,  to  claim 
the  fellowship  of  human  frailty.  Such  men 
may  be  esteemed ;  but  loved  ?  are  they 
compounded  of  the  stuff  which  produces 
delightful,  effortless  companionship  ?  are 
they  fit  for  the  humble,  familiar  incidents 
of  everyday  life  ?  its  hours  of  depression,  its 
disappointments,  its  failures  ?  Can  one 
really  make  friends  of  them  ?  Can  they  be 
really  lovers? 

So  Lord  Belmont, — a  man  of  quick 
sensibilities  and  a  lively  sense  of  humour, — 
had  to  confess  to  himself,  that, — say  what 
he  might  to  his  daughter, — he  regarded  her 
engagement,  if  not  with  uneasiness,  certainly 
without  enthusiasm.  Her  newborn  devo- 
tion to  Montcalm  was  to  him  unintelligible. 
Lord  Belmont,  however,  was  reckoning 
without  due  allowance  for  the  forces  by 
which  the  female  heart  is  swayed.  Woman's 
faculty  for  falling  in  love  is  incomprehen- 
sible to  the  perceptions  of  the  duller  sex. 

Montcalm  had  made  a  deep  impression 
on  his  future  wife,  an  impression  of  power, 
of  strength — strength  of  character,  of  will, 
of    feeling.     He    had,    on    one    or    two 


14  Sibylla  chap,  i 

occasions,  thrown  off  his  habitual  veil  of 
composure  and  reticence,  and  shown  the 
secrets  of  a  profound  nature,  stirred  to  its 
inmost  depths  by  strong  emotion.  He  had 
spoken  with  passion,  which  seemed  strug- 
gling for  mastery,  which  all  but  overpowered 
him.  He  had  convinced  Sibylla  of  his 
sincerity.  An  instant's  wavering  of  fidelity, 
— a  disloyal  sentiment  was  inconceivable. 
He  could  be  tender,  too,  on  occasion — the 
tenderness  of  a  powerful  nature  in  its  gentle 
mood.  He  could  be  wounded,  and  the 
wound  would  cut  deep  and  be  mortal. 
Disappointment  would  be  a  death-blow. 
Sibylla  had  not  felt  the  wish,  nor,  if  the 
wish  had  existed,  the  power  to  strike  it. 
She  had  given  him  her  heart. 


CHAPTER   II 

AN    ELECTION    CAMPAIGN 

Tell  me  not,  sweet,  I  am  unkind, 

That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  thy  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 

To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

Sibylla  was  not  able  to  repress  a  movement 
of  surprise,  when,  in  the  course  of  their 
conversation,  her  lover  announced  that  he 
was  to  start  two  days  later  on  an  election 
campaign  in  Scotland.  It  was  the  wise  and 
right  thing,  no  doubt,  since  Charles  Mont- 
calm had  decided  to  do  it  ;  but  a  deflection 
from  wisdom  and  rightness  would,  it  oc- 
curred to  her,  have  been  excusable  in  a  man 
whose  plighted  troth  was  only  a  few  hours 
old. 

'  Must  you  really  go  so  soon.^*  *  she  asked ; 
*  surely  the  election  is  a  long  way  off.' 


1 6  Sibylla  chap. 

*  Do  you  think  so  ? '  said  Montcalm  ; 
*  who  knows  ?  Anyhow,  my  agent  tells 
me  that  there  is  not  a  moment  to  be  lost.  It 
is  everything  to  be  first  in  the  field,  and  to 
have  one's  constituency  well  in  hand. 
Mine  is  a  very  exacting  one.  I  have  been 
neglecting  it  of  late.  I  received  a  pressing 
letter  this  morning.  I  am  to  make  fourteen 
speeches  in  the  next  six  days,  sometimes 
three  a  day.     You  pity  me,  do  you  not } ' 

'  Pity  you  .^ '  cried  Sibylla,  to  whose 
imagination  an  election  depicted  itself  in 
glowing  colours :  '  no.  How  I  wish  I 
could  come  with  you !  I  should  like 
nothing  better.  I  am  a  splendid  canvasser. 
If  we  were  married  I  would  come  with 
you ! ' 

*  Indeed,'  said  Montcalm,  *  I  am  thankful 
that  you  cannot.  You  little  know,  Sibylla 
— happily  you  can  know  nothing  of  the — 
well — the  brutalities,  there  is  no  other  word 
— of  an  election.  A  canvass  is  the  very 
nadir  of  civilised  existence — the  blackest, 
most  degraded  quarter  of  an  hour  known 
to  modern  man — everything  that  is  most 
horrid    in    life    brought    into    prominence. 


II  An  Election  Campaign  17 

horrible  things  to  be  done  and  said,  horrible 
people  to  be  consorted  with,  conciliated, 
courted,  caressed !  horrible  shakings  of 
dirty  hands !  horrible  meetings !  I  never 
see  a  great  mob  yelling  and  cheering — often 
at  something  one  has  had,  oneself,  the  mis- 
fortune to  say — without  feeling  tempted  to 
turn  away  in  scorn  and  disgust  from  such 
an  exhibition  of  human  folly  !  It  makes 
one  wish  to  have  been  born  a  peer ! ' 

'  Indeed ! '  said  Sibylla  ;  '  that  is  a  new 
view  of  it  to  me  !  I  have  often  been  to 
meetings  with  my  father,  and  we  have  both 
of  us  enjoyed  them  extremely.  I  have 
sometimes  regretted  that  he  became  a  peer 
so  early  and  had  no  more  inspiriting 
audience  than  the  House  of  Lords  to 
address.  It  has  made  him  a  dilettante  ;  it 
is  a  loss  to  a  man  not  to  be  confronted  with 
his  fellow-creatures.  To  be  able  to  move 
them — to  guide,  to  influence,  to  teach  them 
the  way  they  ought  to  go — to  instruct,  to 
inspire.  Surely  that  is  no  mean  power,  no 
ignoble  task  ! ' 

'  A  noble,  generous  theory  ! '  said  her 
companion,  *  and  like  yourself,  Sibylla  ;  but 

VOL.   I  c 


1 8  Sibyllc 


CHAP. 


Still  theory.  The  practice  is  dismally 
different.  To  play  upon  human  nature, 
you  must  know  the  stops  and  know  the 
sort  of  tune  it  will  respond  to.  Un- 
fortunately it  is  not  often  a  nice  one.  And 
then  when  numbers  of  people  get  together 
and  are  excited  they  become  hysterical. 
The  public  speaker's  business  is  to  stimulate 
their  hysterics.' 

'  Well,'  said  Sibylla,  with  a  sigh,  '  it 
is  fortunate,  perhaps,  that  my  going  is  out 
of  the  question.  But  are  politics  a  for- 
bidden field  .^  That  would  be  a  disappoint- 
ment to  me.  I  am  a  great  politician.  My 
dream  has  been  to  have  a  political  salon  ! 
I  feel  as  if  I  could  do  it  ! ' 

'  No  one  could  do  it  better,  more  charm- 
ingly,' said  her  companion,  '  but  the  less 
political  the  better.  There  is  no  one  in 
society  more  qualified  to  shine  in  it — to  be 
a  force,  to  charm,  to  impress,  to  influence. 
It  would  be  degrading  such  powers  to 
employ  them  in  anything  so  commonplace 
as  politics.  We  can  have  some  political 
At  Homes,  of  course  ;  that  is  a  duty  to 
one's  party.' 


II  An  Election  Campaign  19 

'  But  that  is  not  at  all  the  sort  of  thing 
I  mean,'  said  Sibylla  ;  ^  I  do  not  think 
much  of  At  Homes.  They  are  character- 
less, uninteresting,  and  unprofitable.  May 
not  a  woman  do  something  more  than 
fill  her  drawing-room  two  or  three  times  a 
season  with  a  crowd ' 

' and  be  herself  the  most  fascinat- 
ing person  in  it,'  said  Montcalm  ;  '  for  that 
will  be  your  role,  Sibylla.  Is  it  not  role 
enough — to  reign  queen  of  a  coterie  which 
finds  in  you  its  greatest  charm,  with  your 
husband  as  your  warmest,  most  fervent 
admirer,  and  with  all  the  world  of  your 
husband's  opinion.^  It  is  a  tremendous 
power  ;  is  it  not  enough  P ' 

'  I  am  a  happy  woman,  at  any  rate,'  said 
Sibylla,  laying  her  hand  on  Montcalm's,  as 
if  deprecating  his  praise,  '  a  fortunate 
woman.  I  have  the  best  of  lovers. 
Politics  or  no  politics,  I  shall  be  well 
content.' 

Two  days  later  Montcalm  went  away 
for  his  fortnight  of  speech-making,  and 
Sibylla  entered  upon  that  serious  epoch  of 
an  engagement,  a  correspondence.     She  was 


20  Sibylla  chap. 

herself  a  profuse  letter-writer.  Montcalm 
was  anything  rather  than  profuse.  His 
letters  were  something  of  a  disappointment. 
They  were  necessarily,  in  the  circumstances, 
brief — written  often  in  intervals  of  pressing 
business  ;  but  they  need  not,  an  inward 
voice  whispered  to  Sibylla,  have  been  so 
matter-of-fact  and  so  business-like.  They 
were  too  political.  They  told  her  little  of 
her  lover's  self,  his  actual  feeling,  except 
that  the  meetings  were  good,  the  tone 
favourable  and  state  of  constituency  sound. 
'  After  all,'  he  wrote,  '  the  good  sense 
of  these  Scotch  artizans  is,  despite  the 
agitators  who  would  lead  them  to  folly, 
remarkable.  They  have  a  wise  partiality 
for  existing  traditions  over  dreams  of 
imaginary  perfection.  They  show  real 
insight  in  the  resolution  with  which  they 
stick  to  a  man,  whom  they  believe  honest 
and  rational,  however  little  he  courts  them. 
I  feel  confidence  in  my  countrymen.' 

Sibylla  felt  as  if  Montcalm  were  making 
a  political  speech  to  her — one  of  the  four- 
teen which  he  had  to  deliver.  She  used  to 
read  parts  of  her  letters  aloud  to  her  father. 


II  An  Election  Campaign  21 

She  was  mortified  to  discover  how  rare  were 
the  occasions  when  there  was  anything  to 
skip,  how  little  there  was  which  did  not  admit 
of  becoming  public  property,  how  seldom 
the  writer  allowed  himself  to  unbend — how 
few  were  the  lover's  secrets  which  it  would 
be  sacrilege  to  reveal  even  to  a  father's  eye. 
Charles  Montcalm  did  not,  it  must  be 
confessed,  shine  as  a  correspondent. 

What  was  the  cause  of  such  unnatural, 
inopportune  reserve  ?  Was  it  the  shyness 
of  a  man  unaccustomed  to  give  his  feelings 
outward  expression,  and  who  more  than 
ever  shrank  from  such  expression  when  it 
assumed  the  form  of  a  letter }  Was  it  merely 
the  Englishman's  affected  stolidity  }  It  was 
not,  Sibylla  assured  herself,  that  the  passion 
was  not  there.  It  flashed  out  every  now 
and  then  in  chance  phrases  which  betrayed 
the  speaker's  feeling,  almost,  as  it  were,  in 
spite  of  himself.  There  were  some  of  his 
letters  which  Sibylla  read  with  a  beating 
heart,  treasured  as  priceless  possessions,  and 
studied,  again  and  again,  with  tears  of 
thankfulness  and  joy. 

'  There  is  great  excitement  in  speaking,' 


22  Sibylla 


CHAP.    II 


he  had  written  in  one  of  these, — '  a 
pleasurable  excitement  of  nerve  and  brain. 
One  is  never  so  conscious  of  power  over 
others,  never  so  unreserved.  I  wish  it  could 
have  come  at  another  time.  Canvassing, 
always  a  horrid  process,  is  doubly  hateful 
now,  that  it  takes  me  from  the  one  com- 
panion with  whom  I  want  to  be.  What  a 
joy  those  last  days  were  to  me  !  Every 
hour  that  I  pass  away  from  you  is  a  mis- 
fortune. I  did  right  to  come,  I  suppose  ; 
I  long  for  the  hour  of  release — to  be 
with  you  once  again.  Meanwhile  my 
Committee  is  in  excellent  spirits.  All,  the 
agents  tell  us,  is  going  well.' 


CHAPTER   III 

TWO    BROTHERS 

Our  acts  our  angels  are,  or  good  or  ill — 
Our  fatal  shadows  that  walk  by  us  still. 

Charles  Montcalm  and  his  brother 
Frank  had  started  life  with  all  the  advan- 
tages which  an  Englishman  of  wealth  and 
position  can  secure  for  his  sons.  Old  Mr. 
Montcalm  had  a  good  estate  and  a  country- 
house,  which,  under  his  administration, 
had  grown  out  of  solid  comfort  into  some 
magnificence.  He  had  been  for  many- 
years  in  Parliament,  took  a  leading  part  in 
county  business  and  had  a  wide  and 
influential  circle  of  friends.  He  had 
become  a  widower  early  in  life.  The  two 
boys  had  never  known  their  mother.  They 
were  sent  to  Eton  at  the  same  time  ;    for 


24  Si  by  lie 


CHAP. 


Charles,  the  younger  by  a  year,  had  already 
more  than  overtaken  his  elder  brother, 
and,  their  father  fondly  hoped,  might  now 
help  to  keep  him  straight.  Charles  readily 
responded  to  the  good  traditions  of  his 
family.  While  still  a  boy,  he  was  fired 
with  ambition  of  public  life.  At  Eton  he 
lived  in  a  set  of  companions  who,  however 
gay  and  extravagant,  never  forgot  that  their 
real  business  was  to  equip  themselves  as 
brilliant  politicians  and  accomplished 
members  of  society.  They  read  the 
debates;  they  chose  their  sides;  they 
harangued  each  other  in  debating  clubs  on 
the  interests  of  the  Empire  and  the  policy 
of  the  Government.  Amidst  the  seduc- 
tions of  pleasure  Charles  Montcalm  kept 
his  head.  His  abilities  made  him  the 
centre  of  a  brilliant  clique,  catholic  enough 
in  its  tastes  to  take  a  wide  sweep  of  enjoy- 
ment, but  whose  main  inspiration  was  a 
sense  of  what  the  path  of  future  statesmen 
ought  to  be.  They  worked  hard  ;  their 
boyish  follies  were  tempered  with  the  self- 
restraint  which  arises  from  a  settled  purpose 
and  definite  aim.     They  preferred  wasting 


Ill  Two  Brothers  25 

money  to  wasting  time.  If  they  were 
sometimes  profuse,  it  was  because  profusion 
was  a  failing  of  which  no  gentleman  need 
be  ashamed.  If  they  gave  champagne 
luncheons  and  sometimes  played  whist 
when  they  ought  to  have  been  in  bed,  they 
remembered  that  Mr.  Pitt  was  devoted  to 
port,  and  that  Charles  Fox  redeemed  a 
night  at  faroe  by  a  morning  of  Greek  odes 
and  Platonic  philosophy. 

Frank's  course  was  different.  He  was 
one  of  the  natures  to  whom  the  want  of 
a  mother's  care  means  ruin.  As  a  child 
he  was  more  attractive  than  his  younger 
brother  —  gay,  facile,  insinuating,  unre- 
served, disposed  to  be  friends  with  every 
one,  and  to  induce  every  one  to  spoil  him. 
His  father  had  succumbed  to  the  temptation. 
Frank  was  his  pet ;  it  was  difficult  not  to 
pet  him.  Governesses,  however,  when 
they  tried  to  do  anything  but  pet,  found 
him  beyond  control.  When  the  epoch  of 
private  tutors  arrived,  there  were  complaints 
of  invincible  inattention,  thoughts  which 
no  contrivance  could  arrest,  diligence  which 
was  always  flagging,  and  which,  at  the  first 


2  6  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


appearance  of  difficulty,  capitulated.  The 
impossibility  of  teaching  Frank  anything 
became  a  standing  family  joke ;  but  the 
fun  died  out  when,  in  course  of  time,  he 
had  to  be  sent  to  school,  and  at  once  sank, 
lead-like,  to  the  bottom  of  every  aggregate 
of  which  he  formed  a  part.  Then  came 
news  of  a  scrape,  the  first  of  a  long  series 
with  which  Mr.  Montcalm,  in  after  years, 
became  horribly  familiar,  each  one  graver 
than  its  predecessor.  Frank's  Eton  career 
came  to  a  premature  and  ignominious  close. 
Oxford  fared  no  better.  By  the  time  he 
was  twenty-one,  Frank  had  made  it  clear 
to  his  father's  reluctant  eyes  that  he  was  on 
the  high-road  to  a  catastrophe,  with  every 
qualification  for  speedily  arriving  at  his 
journey's  end.  The  truth  could  no  longer 
be  ignored.  The  darling  of  his  father  had 
now  become  his  scourge. 

It  was  natural  that,  with  such  widely 
different  tastes  and  aspirations,  the  two 
brothers  should  see  but  little  of  each  other. 
They  had  nothing  in  common.  They 
lived  in  different  sets,  and  on  the  rare 
occasions  when  they  met  at  their  father's 


Ill  Two  Brothers  27 

house  the  estrangement  became  painfully 
apparent.  There  was  the  restraint  of 
mutual  uncongeniality  and  mutual  dis- 
approval. There  was  an  under-current  of 
insolence  in  Frank's  manner  to  his  brother. 
As  a  boy  he  had  always  regarded  him  as  a 
paragon  of  dull  correctness,  a  prig.  He 
now  despised  his  devotion  to  politics,  his 
indiiference  to  all  the  common  enjoyments 
of  life. 

Charles,  on  the  other  hand,  though 
resenting  his  brother's  line  of  reckless 
pleasure  as  ignoble  in  itself  and  disgraceful 
to  his  family,  followed  his  father  in  cherish- 
ing a  lurking  fondness  for  the  prodigal,  a 
lurking  hope  for  his  reclamation.  Frank, 
however,  showed  no  symptoms  of  wishing 
to  be  reclaimed.  With  unvarying  bent  he 
passed  through  the  stages  of  spoilt  child, 
idle  and  refractory  school-boy,  the  fast 
Oxonian.  He  was  now  a  wild  pleasure- 
hunter,  with  pronounced  weakness  for  bad 
company,  gambling  and  drink.  His  father 
had  repeatedly  paid  his  debts  and  rescued 
him  from  the  hands  of  the  sharpers  who 
gather,   vulture-like,  around  the  moneyed 


28  Si  by  lie 


CHAP. 


profligate.  But  the  rescue  was  invariably 
bootless.  There  would  be  a  few  months' 
respite,  during  which  nothing  was  heard  of 
him  ;  then  would  come  news  of  some  new 
entanglement.  At  last  it  became  obvious 
that  a  scandal  was  inevitable.  Before  long 
the  scandal  came — a  desperate  card  scandal 
at  a  gambling  club,  in  which  mutual 
charges  of  dishonourable  behaviour  were 
bandied  about  by  all  concerned.  Men  of 
high  standing  were  involved  ;  they 
demanded  a  formal  investigation.  A 
committee  was  appointed.  The  result 
was  deplorable  for  Frank  Montcalm.  He 
was  found  to  have  been  systematically 
cheating  ;  he  was  shown  to  be  hopelessly 
involved.  He  had  been  gambling  in  a 
desperate  mood,  on  an  enormous  scale,  in 
utter  recklessness.  His  so-called  debts  of 
honour  were  enormous.  Other  debts  on 
a  huge  scale  were  brought  to  light.  To 
put  the  finishing  touch  to  the  edifice  of 
shame,  he  forged  his  brother's  name  to  a 
heavy  acceptance,  and  suddenly  disappeared. 
Mr.  Montcalm,  who  hitherto  had  said 
no  word,  now  wrote  to  the  chairman  of  the 


Ill  Two  Brothers  29 

committee  to  ask  for  a  list  of  Frank's  debts 
of  every  kind.  Next  day  he  sent  a  cheque 
for  the  amount  with  a  request  that  all  might 
be  forthwith  discharged.  The  forged  ac- 
ceptance was  duly  honoured.  A  few  weeks 
later  it  was  known  that  Mr.  Montcalm's 
town  house — a  fine  old  London  mansion, 
where  he  had  been  accustomed  to  live  in 
considerable  splendour — was  for  sale.  Mr. 
Montcalm  never  again  appeared  in  London 
society,  but  lived,  in  complete  seclusion, 
at  his  country  place,  Frampton.  Nobody, 
except  one  or  two  intimate  friends,  had 
ever  seen  him.  Those  who  did  see  him 
found  a  broken-hearted  man — shattered 
alike  in  body  and  mind.  Charles  was  his 
only  confidant.  When  the  news  of  the 
disaster  first  arrived  he  had  consulted  with 
him  as  to  the  course  to  be  pursued. 

'  The  debts  must  be  paid,'  he  had  said. 
*  We  must  take  up  the  forged  note.  But 
the  sacrifice  will  be  more  yours  than  mine, 
Charles.  For  me  life  is  over  ;  money — 
everything  indeed — is  a  matter  of  absolute 
indifference.  I  shall  not  be  here  for  long. 
But  for  you  the  cost  is  serious.      It  will 


30  Sibylla  chap. 

greatly  cripple  your  future  fortune.  I  will 
do  nothing  without  your  full  concurrence. 
Some  men  might  consider  it  quixotic  to  pay 
a  brother's  debts — and  such  a  brother's.  I 
will  tell  you  plainly  how  matters  stand.  I 
intend  to  make  you  my  heir.  The  estate 
is  practically  yours  ;  so  is  this  house,  on 
which  we  have  spent  so  much  thought  and 
money,  as  a  family  centre.  I  can  meet 
these  claims  only  by  selling  my  town-house 
and  the  most  valuable  of  the  pictures,  and 
raising  the  rest  by  mortgage  on  Frampton. 
That  seems  to  me  the  proper  course  ;  but 
it  is  for  you  to  decide.  Take  your  time  to 
consider  it.' 

'  No,  father,'  said  Charles  ;  '  it  needs  no 
consideration.  Your  view  is  mine.  What- 
ever dirt  is  thrown  about,  let  our  own  hands 
be  clean.  We  must  save  our  family  honour. 
No  one  need  know  about  all  this  horrid 
business — not  about  the  forgery  at  any  rate 
— but  ourselves.' 

*  It  would  have  killed  me  if  you  had 
decided  otherwise,'  said  his  father  with  a 
great  sigh  of  relief.  '  You  have  my  warmest 
thanks,    Charles.       You    will    still   have   a 


Ill 


Two  Brothers  31 


competence.  You  will  be  able  to  live  here, 
and  need  not  give  up  Parliament.  And 
you  will   never  tell  the  story  to  any  one, 


will  you  ? ' 


So  the  cheque  had  been  sent,  and  the 
Montcalm  scandal,  after  being  a  three  days' 
topic  of  fashionable  gossip,  sank  under  the 
whirling  eddies  of  London  life,  and  was 
forgotten — everywhere  but  in  one  or  two 
hearts,  where  it  remained  a  rooted  sorrow, 
blotting  out  all  the  pleasure  of  existence 
and  clouding  the  serene  heaven  of  an  hon- 
ourable life. 

Nothing  was  known  of  Frank's  move- 
ments ;  but  two  years  later  a  police  report, 
copied  from  a  far -west  American  news- 
paper, mentioned  that  an  Englishman  of 
the  name  of  Montcalm  had  been  shot  in 
a  drunken  brawl  at  the  Eldorado  Mines, 
the  most  recent  of  the  great  gold-fields  of 
Columbia. 

Charles,  at  his  father's  request,  had  in- 
stituted enquiries  about  the  murdered  man. 
Mr.  Strutt,  the  family  solicitor,  had  been 
set  to  work,  and  had  despatched  a  special 
agent  to  the  spot.     His  investigation  left 


32  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


no  doubt  that  the  murdered  man  was  no 
other  than  Frank.  There  had  been,  the 
agent  wrote,  a  formal  police  enquiry  into 
the  circumstances  of  the  murder,  a  copy  of 
the  proceedings  at  which  he  forwarded 
with  his  letter.  Montcalm  had  been 
familiarly  known  among  a  gang  of  adven- 
turers, who  had  come  together  to  the  mine, 
and  whose  unruly  behaviour  had  given 
much  trouble  to  the  authorities.  He  was 
known  to  be  an  Englishman  and  a  gentle- 
man by  birth.  There  had  been  much 
drinking  and  gambling,  and  constant 
quarrels  in  which  life  and  limb  were  en- 
dangered. The  corpse  had  been  discovered, 
several  days  after  death,  in  an  almost  in- 
accessible locality,  where  the  fight  had, 
apparently,  taken  place.  It  had  not  been 
thought  necessary  to  bring  it  into  head- 
quarters, as  the  finder  had  identified 
it,  and  other  circumstances  sufficiently 
established  the  identity.  The  murdered 
man's  coat  was  recognised  by  several  of  his 
acquaintance,  and  in  it  was  found  his  ticket 
of  location,  corresponding  with  the  register 
in  which  Frank  Montcalm  had  been  duly 


Ill 


Two  Brothers  33 


entered.  There  was  found  upon  his  person 
a  clasp  knife,  and  a  pipe,  on  both  of  which  his 
name  was  engraved.  These  were  now  for- 
warded to  his  father.  Charles  knew  the 
knife  only  too  well.  It  was  one  which  his 
brother  had  possessed  since  boyhood — his 
father's  gift.  Frank  had  a  boyish  fondness 
for  it.  Absolutely  careless  in  everything 
else,  he  had  stuck  to  this,  and  piqued  him- 
self on  his  successful  care  of  it.  It  was  one 
of  the  small  signs  of  grace  with  which  Mr. 
Montcalm  had  endeavoured  to  console 
himself  Putting  all  the  evidence  together, 
there  seemed  no  reasonable  ground  for 
doubt,  Mr.  Strutt  wrote,  that  Frank 
was  the  murdered  man.  If  any  of 
Mr.  Montcalm's  arrangements  depended 
on  the  occurrence  of  Frank's  death, 
that  event  might  and  ought  now  to  be 
assumed. 

'  No  arrangement  depends  on  his  death, 
poor  fellow,'  Mr.  Montcalm  said  to  Charles. 
'  The  only  thing  is  this  :  At  the  time  of 
his  trouble,  when  you  joined  with  me  in 
paying  off  the  debts,  I  exercised  a  power  of 
appointment,    which    I     had     under     my 

VOL.   I  D 


34  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


marriage  settlement,  of  giving  Frampton 
and  the  bulk  of  the  estate  to  whichever  of 
my  children  I  chose.  The  settlement  pro- 
vided that,  in  default  of  such  an  appoint- 
ment, the  place  was  to  go  to  the  eldest  son 
of  the  marriage,  living  at  my  death,  or  to 
his  son,  with  remainder  over  to  my  other 
sons.  Provision  was  made  for  the  other 
children — and  handsome  provision  ;  for  I 
was  a  rich  man  then.  Still  you  would  have 
had  only  a  younger  son's  portion.  Frank's 
trouble  made  it  necessary  to  make  a  change. 
Practically  I  disinherited  him  and  left 
everything  to  you.  It  was  only  just ;  but 
I  never  felt  happy  about  it.  That  appoint- 
ment weighed  on  my  spirits.  It  was  a 
record  of  our  family  disgrace.  Strutt  in- 
sisted that  I  must  set  out  all  the  circum- 
stances— the  payments  I  had  made,  and 
which  you  had  made,  on  Frank's  behalf. 
Strutt  made  me  do  it  so,  in  justice  to 
you.  But  I  hated  doing  it.  Now  that 
poor  Frank  is  gone,  it  is  unnecessary.  I 
shall  be  happier  when  I  know  that  it  is 
destroyed.  I  mean  to  destroy  it.  News- 
paper    men     nowadays     go    to    Doctor's 


Ill  Two  Brothers  35 

Commons  and  pry  into  people's  wills,  and 
so  they  get  into  the  newspapers.  I  cannot 
bear  the  idea  of  that.  The  settlement  now 
does  all  that  I  wish.  It  will  give  every- 
thing to  you.' 

'  Poor  Frank,'  Mr.  Montcalm  continued. 
'  I  was  weak  about  him,  Charles,  was  I 
not.?  He  was  my  weak  point.  I  doted 
on  him.  He  was  the  great  sorrow  of  my 
life.  He  died  unforgiven,  because  he  would 
never  come  home  to  give  me  a  chance  of 
forgiving  him.  He  was  ashamed,  I  suppose, 
to  tax  my  powers  of  forgiveness  again,  to 
take  any  more  of  my  money  and  yours. 
Well,  that  was  a  good  trait,  was  it  not.? 
He  had  good  in  him,  poor  boy — much  good. 
I  suppose  I  had  spoilt  him.  I  could  have 
borne  anything  if  only  I  had  been  allowed 
to  see  him  once  more  before  he  died,  and  to 
speak  my  forgiveness  and  to  part  in  peace. 
Now,  at  any  rate,  I  need  not  record  his 
disgrace,  and  disinherit  him.  His  death 
has  spared  me  that.' 

Mr.  Strutt,  when  consulted  on  the  sub- 
ject, urged  strongly  that  the  appointment 
should  be  left  in  force  until,  at  any  rate, 


2^  Sibylla  chap. 

the  subject  had  received  careful  considera- 
tion. There  was  not,  *primd  facie^  he 
admitted,  any  necessity  for  preserving  it, 
except  as  a  safeguard  against  possible  mis- 
hap and  litigation  hereafter ;  but  why  destroy 
a  safeguard  ?  He  proposed  to  come  down 
and  stay  at  Frampton  and  talk  the  matter 
over  with  his  two  clients. 

The  question  of  destroying  the  appoint- 
ment greatly  excited  Mr.  Montcalm.  He 
could  talk  of  nothing  else.  Charles  observed 
with  anxiety  its  effect  on  his  father's  nerves. 
He  was  unnaturally  over-wrought.  The 
document  was  his  bete  noire.  Its  destruc- 
tion seemed  to  him  like  the  sweeping  away 
of  the  evidence  of  a  family  disaster,  the 
clearing  of  the  family  record  of  a  shameful 
story.  He  read  Mr.  Strutt's  letter  as  im- 
pliedly admitting  that  there  was  now  no 
practical  necessity  for  its  preservation.  His 
visit,  and  the  further  consideration  which  he 
represented  as  essential,  were  merely  the 
superabundant  precautions  which  a  solicitor 
is  professionally  bound  to  recommend. 
Charles,  on  coming  into  the  library,  one 
morning,  found  his  father  standing,  poker 


Ill  Tzvo  Brothers  37 

in  hand,  before  the  fireplace,  holding  down 
a  blazing  piece  of  paper. 

'  I  have  destroyed  it,'  Mr.  Montcalm  said 
excitedly  ;  '  I  feel  a  comfort  in  having  done 
so  ;  my  heart  is  lighter.  I  feel  better.  If 
anything  further  is  necessary,  Strutt  can 
draw  it  up  when  he  comes.  That  wretched 
appointment  has  plagued  me.  I  have  had 
my  revenge  upon  it.' 

Mr.  Strutt's  services,  however,  were 
presently  needed  for  another  phase  of  the 
Montcalm  family  affairs.  Mr.  Montcalm's 
health  had  been  for  some  time  failing.  He 
had  been  nervous,  excitable  ;  greatly  de- 
pressed at  one  time,  elated  at  another ; 
always  increasingly  feeble.  His  doctor  had 
often  spoke  to  Charles  of  his  father's  en- 
feebled vitality  and  weak  heart  —  of  the 
absolute  necessity  of  avoiding  any  shock. 
Mr.  Montcalm  had  now  manufactured  a 
cause  of  excitement  out  of  nothing.  He  had 
worked  himself  into  an  agitation  which  was 
too  much  for  his  shattered  frame.  It  soon 
became  apparent  that  he  was  extremely  ill. 
He  began  to  wander.  His  thoughts  were 
busy  with  the  far  past.     He  spoke  of  his 


38  Sibylla  chap. 

wife  ;  he  confused  Charles  with  Frank.  He 
kept  talking  of  one  of  Frank's  boyish 
scrapes.  Charles,  greatly  alarmed,  des- 
patched a  message  to  summon  the  doctor, 
and  to  hurry  Mr.  Strutt.  But  before 
doctor  or  solicitor  could  come,  Mr.  Mont- 
calm's troubles  were  at  an  end.  Mr.  Strutt, 
on  his  arrival,  found  the  household  in  the 
first  bewilderment  of  a  domestic  tragedy. 
His  client  had  died  the  previous  night. 

Mr.  Strutt  looked  very  grave  indeed 
when  Charles  Montcalm  told  him  of  the 
destruction  of  the  appointment, — unneces- 
sarily grave,  Charles  thought.  '  I  cannot 
see  what  harm  can  come  of  it,'  he  said,  as 
he  concluded  the  narrative. 

'  Can  you  not } '  cried  Mr.  Strutt  ;  '  I 
wish  that  I  could  not.  I  trust  that  nothing 
may  come  of  it.  We  must  hope  for  the 
best ;  but,  with  people  like  your  brother 
Frank  and  his  associates,  you  can  never  tell 
what  mischief  may  turn  up.  You  are,  I 
suppose,  certain  that  your  father  was  quite 
master  of  himself,  and  was  fully  conscious 
of  what  he  was  doing,  when  he  destroyed 
the  appointment } ' 


Ill  Two  Brothers  39 

'  It  never  occurred  to  me  that  he  was 
not,'  said  the  other ;  '  he  was  growing  feebler 
day  by  day  ;  but  he  was  quite  himself.' 

'  Well,'  said  Mr.  Strutt,  with  a  shrug  of 
his  shoulders,  which  often  served  him  for 
the  close  of  an  inconvenient  conversation, 
'  we  can  only  hope  for  the  best.' 

Charles  Montcalm,  as  eldest,  indeed  as 
only,  son  of  the  deceased,  and  his  executor, 
wound  up  his  father's  affairs,  and  took 
possession  of  the  estate.  There  was  little 
to  be  done ;  everything  was  in  perfect  order. 
There  was  practically  no  change  of  master, 
for  Charles  had  of  late  undertaken  the  chief 
part  of  the  management.  Frampton  was, 
except  for  occasional  visits,  shut  up.  Charles 
had  a  lodging  in  St.  James's  Street,  and  was 
busy  with  his  Parliame-ntary  work.  The 
first  important  break  in  the  even  current  of 
his  life  was  his  engagement  to  Sibylla. 


CHAPTER   IV 


LOVE  S  ANXIETIES 


Ah  !   the  man 
Is  worthy,  but  so  given  to  entertain 
Impossible  dreams  of  superhuman  life, 
He  sets  his  virtues  on  so  high  a  shelf. 
To  keep  them  at  the  grand  millennial  height, 
He  has  to  mount  a  stool  to  get  at  them  ; 
And,  meantime,  lives  on  quite  the  common  way 
With  everybody's  morals. 

The  writers  of  romance  are  accustomed  to 
take  leave  of  lovers  at  the  moment  of  their 
engagement,  as  if  everything  were  over,  and 
the  vessel  were  safely  brought  to  a  haven 
of  safety.  On  the  contrary,  the  voyage  is 
just  beginning.  Into  what  perilous  seas 
the  youthful  pair  are  steering,  with  their 
precious  freight  of  human  happiness ! 
What  difficulties  and  perils  beset  it ! 
What  grave  anxieties,  what  risks  of  tragic, 


CHAP.  IV  Love  s  Anxieties  41 

disastrous  shipwreck !  For  the  people 
most  immediately  concerned  the  hour  is 
critical.  It  calls  for  all  the  tact,  the  deli- 
cacy, the  refinement  of  soul,  the  skilful 
handling,  that  their  resources,  mental  and 
moral,  can  furnish  for  the  accomplishment 
of  a  difficult  task.  The  man  is,  necessarily, 
almost  always  a  disappointment.  He 
cannot  live  up  to  the  romantic  ideal  of 
the  woman,  who  believed  him  perfect. 
Fortunate  if  he  can  temper  the  disappoint- 
ment, can  lighten  the  shock  —  show  some 
solid  merits  to  compensate  for  vanishing 
illusions,  and  lay  a  firm  hold  on  affection 
and  esteem,  as  the  rose-tinted  clouds  of 
imagination  dissolve  and  disappear. 

It  is,  accordingly,  in  the  nature  of  things 
that  the  course,  even  of  true  love,  should 
not  run  smooth,  and  that  the  happiness  of 
lovers — of  thoughtful  lovers,  at  any  rate — 
should  be  largely  tempered  by  anxiety. 
It  can  hardly  be  otherwise.  To  both 
parties  the  period  of  courtship  is  a  voyage 
of  discovery — a  delightful  voyage,  no  doubt 
— interesting,  entrancing,  but  not  without 
the  excitements  and  vicissitudes  incidental 


42  Sibylla  chap. 

to  sailing  in  unmapped  seas.  The  woman, 
in  most  cases,  has  everything  to  learn. 
She  is  making  real  acquaintance,  for  the 
first  time,  with  the  race  of  man  —  that 
strange  combination  of  conflicting  impulses 
and  desires,  of  waywardness,  of  inconsist- 
encies, of  unintelligible  idiosyncrasies. 
What  innumerable  strains  are  mixed  in 
each  man's  blood ;  what  a  host  of  inherited 
tendencies  of  taste  and  habit  and  impulse, 
driving  him  this  way  and  that,  and  making 
him  often  a  mystery  to  himself,  still  more 
mysterious  to  the  woman  whose  business 
it  is  to  understand  him.  Till  now  he  has 
shown  her  nothing  but  his  most  charming 
phase  —  the  phase  of  the  adoring  lover. 
The  slight  intercourse  which  precedes  an 
engagement  makes  it  difficult  for  him  to 
show  her  any  other.  His  future  wife  has 
to  take  many  things  on  trust — things  which 
are  vital  to  her  happiness.  Happily  she 
is  generally  in  the  mood  to  do  so.  She  is 
happy ;  she  is  hopeful,  and  hope  makes 
her  deafen  her  ear  to  the  jarring  note  which 
might  breathe  of  disillusion. 

Thus,  though  Sibylla  was  happy  in  her 


IV  Loves  Anxieties  43 

engagement,  she  was  occasionally  beset 
with  shadowy  misgivings.  Charles  Mont- 
calm was  a  noble  creature,  she  was  sure 
of  that  ;  but  he  sometimes  surprised, 
sometimes  perplexed  her.  A  rational 
woman,  thoroughly  in  love,  is  ready  to 
make  generous  allowance  for  her  lover's 
idiosyncrasies.  They  interest,  they  amuse 
her.  They  are  the  shadows  necessary  for 
an  effective  portrait.  They  are  the  out- 
come of  originality — the  accompaniment, 
sometimes  the  symptom,  of  genius.  Sibylla 
fortified  herself  with  the  reflection  that  her 
future  husband  would  not,  at  any  rate,  be 
commonplace.  In  her  weaker  moments 
she  caught  herself  wishing  that  he  could 
be  more  expansive,  less  self- disciplined 
and  self- suppressed,  more  prompt  in  the 
confidential  utterances  which  Nature  sets 
flowing  from  a  lover's  lips.  Reserve  is  of 
all  habits  the  most  unintelligible,  the  most 
depressing  to  the  unreserved.  Sibylla's 
spirits,  too,  were  sometimes  damped  by  the 
consciousness  of  something  in  her  father's 
feeling  about  Charles  Montcalm,  which 
fell   short  of  what  she  would  have   liked. 


44  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


Lord  Belmont  was  elaborately  cordial  in 
his  behaviour  to  his  future  son-in-law,  and 
always  spoke  of  him  with  warm  esteem  ; 
but  it  was  due  to  the  circumstances  of  the 
position  that  he  should  do  so.  Sibylla 
seemed  to  herself  to  detect  an  absence  of 
heartiness,  of  spontaneity  in  her  father's 
eulogium.  There  was  something  in 
Montcalm's  character,  she  felt,  which 
jarred, — something  with  which  her  father 
could  not  sympathise.  She  puzzled  her- 
self with  conjectures  as  to  what  it  was. 
She  more  than  once  essayed  to  get  him  to 
talk  about  her  lover  ;  never,  however,  with 
great  success. 

'  Charles  is  tremendously  political,  is  he 
not  ^ '  Lord  Belmont  said  on  one  of  these 
occasions  :  '  some  men  are  born  like  that. 
His  father  was  just  the  same.  It  is  bred 
in  the  bone.  Their  families,  1  suppose, 
have  been  at  the  business  for  generations. 
It  is  part  of  their  existence  ;  they  feel  it 
to  be  of  supreme  importance.  They  are 
the  loyalest  of  partizans.  Charles  would 
sacrifice  himself  for  his  party,  just  as  he 
would  die  for  his  country.' 


IV 


hove  s  Anxieties  45 


'  Of  course,'  cried  Sibylla.  *  Noblesse 
oblige.     We  should  all  do  that,  I  suppose.' 

*  Should  we  '^.  '  said  her  father,  '  let  us 
hope  so  ;  but  not,  I  fear,  with  Charles's 
enthusiasm.  He  is  a  political  enthusiast. 
I  am  not  sure  that  such  enthusiasm  is  as 
common  as  you  think,  Sibylla.  Anyhow, 
in  the  guise  in  which  Charles  shows  it,  it 
is  an  admirable  quality.  He  will  do 
something  heroic  in  politics  before  he  has 
done  with  them.' 

'  I  am  glad  that  you  feel  that,'  said 
Sibylla,  taking  her  father's  hand,  as  she 
was  apt  to  do  when  he  especially  pleased 
her  ;  '  you  always  feel  the  right  thing — 
the  dear  thing.  I  feel  that  strongly  myself; 
I  know  it.  There  is  something  heroic  in 
Charles.  Some  day,  when  the  occasion 
offers,  he  will  show  it.  But  there  is  some- 
thing more  in  him  than  heroism  ;  when 
you  come  to  know  him  better  you  will 
feel  it  as  I  do.' 

*  I  feel  all  that  I  could  wish  about  my 
dear  daughter's  lover,'  said  Lord  Belmont. 
'  No  one  could  ever,  in  my  thoughts,  have 
been  good   enough   for  her.      But  I  like 


46  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


Montcalm  extremely.  The  difference 
between  him  and  me — if  there  is  one — lies 
in  our  attitude  towards  public  affairs.  I 
have  not  for  a  long  while  been  enough  in 
the  thick  of  politics  to  feel  as  vivid  an 
interest  in  them  as  he  does.  Much  about 
them  does  not  interest  me  at  all.  The 
party-fight  part  of  the  business  is  intolerable, 
if  you  look  at  it  in  cold  blood  and  without 
having,  yourself,  a  share  in  the  fight.' 

'  But  that  is  part  of  the  game,'  said 
Sibylla,  '  a  necessary  part.  And  the  game 
is  the  best  sort  of  thing  for  a  man  to  take 
up,  is  it  not  ? — the  only  thing  for  a  rich 
man  with  no  profession.  By  the  way, 
father,  tell  me  what  you  know  about 
Charles's  boyhood.  You  remember  him  as 
a  boy,  do  you  not  ? ' 

'  Perfectly,'  said  Lord  Belmont.  *  His 
father  was  one  of  the  friends  of  my  youth. 
He  was  so  charming  ;  I  quite  loved  him  ; 
a  delightful  companion  !  His  eldest  son 
gave  him  trouble  ;  Charles  was  his  comfort ; 
he  behaved  admirably  about  his  brother.' 

'  And  what  became  of  the  brother  ? ' 
asked  Sibylla. 


IV  Love's  Anxieties  47 

'  He  disappeared  from  London  in  dis- 
grace— some  desperate  money  scandal — 
and  died,  I  believe,  in  America.  But 
nothing  was  ever  known  for  certain.  It 
was  not  a  subject  that  I  could  mention  to 
Montcalm.  The  Montcalms,  father  and 
son,  joined  in  paying  the  prodigal's  debts. 
They  had  to  dip  pretty  deep  into  the  family 
revenues  to  do  it.  They  said  that  it  cost 
them  half  the  estate.  Charles  never 
mentions  it  ;  it  is  like  him  not  to  do  so, 
since  it  redounds  to  his  credit.' 

'  But  it  sounds  interesting,'  said  Sibylla  ; 
'  one  ought  to  know  one's  husband's 
virtues,  his  virtuous  acts, — ought  not  one  ? 
I  feel  inquisitive.' 

'  Then,'  said  her  father,  laughing,  '  you 
must  ask  him.  I  have  told  you  all  I 
know.' 

Charles  Montcalm  showed  no  inclination 
to  relieve  Sibylla's  inquisitiveness.  He 
could  not  be  brought  within  a  hundred 
miles  of  the  subject. 

Any  allusion  to  it — any  approach  to  it 
— seemed  to  plunge  him  in  impenetrable 
reserve.      His   lips   were    sealed.      Sibylla 


48  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


had  to  recognise  the  unwelcome  fact  that, 
when  her  lover  chose,  he  could  be  reticence 
itself,  and  that  there  were  some  topics 
which  were  forbidden  in  their  intercourse. 
Such  a  discovery  is  unfortunate  at  a  moment 
when  mutual  confidence  is  the  great 
desideratum.  A  future  husband  must, 
above  everything,  be  frank. 

This  view  of  the  matter  had  not  occurred 
to  Charles  Montcalm.  He  considered  it 
due  to  his  father,  his  brother,  his  family, 
himself,  that  absolute  silence  should  be 
observed  on  a  subject  in  which  their 
common  honour  was  involved.  His  father 
had  bound  him  to  silence.  It  had  been  his 
passionate  desire  to  bury  the  subject  in 
oblivion,  to  shroud  it  from  publicity. 
There  seemed  a  sort  of  piety  in  concealing 
it  even  from  her  who  had  most  right  to 
read  his  secret  thoughts.  The  subject 
disgusted  him ;  it  seemed  all  the  more 
disgusting  when  he  thought  of  it  in  con- 
nection with  the  new  life  opening  upon  him, 
and  the  unsullied  purity  and  nobility  which 
had  charmed  him  in  his  future  wife.  She 
was  the  last  person  to  whom  it  would  be 


IV 


Love  s  Anxieties  49 


endurable  to  make  a  revelation  of  family 
dishonour. 

Meantime  there  were  circles  in  which 
Charles  Montcalm's  qualifications  as 
Sibylla's  accepted  suitor  were  canvassed 
with  more  freedom  than  indulgence.  Her 
relations  generally  disapproved.  Mrs. 
Ormesby,  Lord  Belmont's  sister,  was  a 
shrewd  old  lady,  with  a  keen  faculty  of 
perception,  a  turn  for  satire  and  a  vigorous 
tongue.  In  a  family  conclave,  in  her 
drawing-room,  Sibylla's  engagement  was 
discussed  with  considerable  animation. 
Mrs.  Ormesby  herself  was  not  partial  to 
Montcalm,  and  was  not  too  well  pleased  at 
her  niece's  decision.  It  struck  her  as 
uninteresting.  Her  views  on  the  subject 
were  warmly  seconded  by  her  daughter, 
Lady  Holte,  wife  of  a  sporting  baronet — 
an  extremely  smart  and  not  specially 
sensible  young  woman,  who  piqued  herself 
on  being  clever,  modern,  frivolous,  and 
in  awe  of  nobody  except,  perhaps,  her 
uncle  Belmont,  whose  penetrating  eye  and 
occasional  sarcasm  struck  terror  into  a  soul 
which    few   things    could    abash.       Olivia 

VOL.   I  E 


50  Sibylla  chap. 

Holte  particularly  disliked  Charles  Mont- 
calm, to  whose  grave  soul  her  frivolity  was 
anti-pathetic.  He  was  one  of  the  men 
whom  she  condemned  as  *  impossible.' 
It  was  impossible,  at  any  rate,  to  betray 
him  into  the  merest  semblance  of  a 
flirtation.  She  had  received  the  news  of 
her  cousin's  engagement  with  outbursts  of 
irreverent  laughter.  *  I  was  always  certain 
that  Sibylla  would  marry  a  stick.  She  is  so 
sublime,  and  she  likes  a  prig.  But  Mr. 
Montcalm  !  Well,  it  is  Sibylla's  foible  to 
be  original.  She  has  achieved  it  now  with 
a  vengeance ! ' 

*  I  see  nothing  original  about  it,'  said 
Montague,  Mrs.  Ormesby's  favourite 
nephew,  and  an  assiduous  frequenter  of  her 
drawing-room  at  tea  time  ;  '  such  matches 
are  common  and  commonplace.  Society 
is  overrun  with  dull  mediocrities  bent  on 
improving  themselves  into  a  reputation.' 

'  No,  Fred  ! '  said  his  aunt,  *  that  is  not 
fair.  Charles  Montcalm  is  no  mediocrity. 
He  is  too  good  for  worldlings  like  you  and 
Olivia  to  appreciate.  But  he  lacks  the  fairy 
kiss  in   his   cradle  that  would  have  given 


IV  Loves  Anxieties  51 

him  gaiety  and  charm.  He  is  essentially 
stiff — not  on  comfortable  terms  with  any- 
body or  anything — not  even  an  abstract 
idea.  How  he  got  through  his  proposal 
I  can't  imagine.  He  must  have  done  it 
with  a  protocol.' 

*  He  is  an  abstract  idea  himself,'  cried 
Lady  Holte,  *  a  political  abstraction.  For 
my  part,  when  it  comes  to  men,  I  prefer  the 
concrete.' 

'  He  is  swamped  in  politics  and  in  him- 
self,' said  Montague  :  '  a  man  so  self- 
absorbed  is  a  standing  hardship  on  his  un- 
abstracted  fellows  —  especially  his  wife. 
His  body  is  present,  but  his  spirit  is  hover- 
ing about  the  Speaker's  chair,  toying  with 
a  blue  book,  or  wrapt  in  the  contemplation 
of  a  parliamentary  manoeuvre.  When 
men's  souls  go  a  star-gazing,  they  ought  to 
take  their  bodies  with  them.' 

*  The  complaint  is  an  old  one,'  said  Mrs. 
Ormesby.  ^  I  was  reading  the  other  day 
about  some  old  philosopher  or  other — 
Hermotimus  or  some  one  ;  he  possessed 
this  objectionable  faculty  of  severing  body 
and  soul,  and  wandering  in  spirit  about  the 


LIBRARY 


52  Sibylla  chap,  iv 

earth,  leaving  the  corporeal  part  of  him  in 
charge  of  his  wife,  with  many  injunctions 
to  preserve  it  from  molestation.  His  wife 
grew  tired  of  this  sort  of  conjugal  infidelity, 
burnt  his  body,  and  so  put  an  end  to  the 
arrangement.      She  was  a  sensible  woman.' 

'  Bravo  !  Mrs.  Hermotimus  ! '  cried 
Lady  Holte  ;  '  but  Sibylla  will  never  burn 
her  lord,  will  she  .^  She  is  too  consci- 
entious.' 

*  I  wish  you  had  half  her  conscientious- 
ness, Olivia,'  said  her  mother,  '  or  half  her 
common-sense.  She  is  worth  a  dozen  of 
you.' 

'  But  there  are  not  a  dozen  women  like 
Olivia  in  all  London,'  said  her  cousin  ;  '  she 
is  the  epitome  of  smartness — and  what  a 
lovely  dress  she  wears  this  afternoon.  It  is 
a  pleasure  to  look  at  her.' 

'  And  you  are  the  epitome  of  chaff,'  said 
Lady  Holte,  getting  up  and  embracing  her 
mother.  '  I  will  not  stay  to  be  chaffed.  I 
must  go  and  spread  the  news.' 


CHAPTER   V 

HONEYMOON 

Linger,  I  cried,  O  radiant  Time  !   thy  power 
Has  nothing  more  to  give  ;  life  is  complete  : 
Let  but  the  perfect  present,  hour  by  hour, 
Itself  remember  and  itself  repeat. 

The  Stage,  the  wisest  of  mankind  has 
observed,  is  more  beholden  to  love  than 
is  the  life  of  man.  It  serves  the  stage, 
'  for  love  is  ever  matter  of  comedies,  and, 
now  and  then,  of  tragedies  ;  but  in  life  it 
does  much  mischief,  sometimes  like  a  Siren, 
sometimes  like  a  Fury.'  It  was  the  siren 
that  now  guided  the  newly-wedded  hus- 
band and  wife  by  enchanted  shores,  fairy- 
haunted  bays,  and  islands  of  the  blest.  The 
air  was  resonant  with  siren  songs — the  songs 
of  joy,  of  hope,  of  affectionate  exhilaration. 


54  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


They  travelled  slowly  and  luxuriously 
across  Italy ;  and  at  each  hahing-place 
Montcalm's  research,  artistic  culture  and 
refined  appreciativeness  gave  his  wife  a  new 
and  higher  sense  of  the  enjoyment  of  travel 
than  she  had  ever  experienced  on  previous 
occasions.  The  grand  old  cities  of  Lom- 
bardy,  with  their  long  historic  pedigree  and 
far-reaching  associations,  fired  him  with  an 
enthusiasm  which  Sibylla  was  not  slow  to 
catch.  Charles  Montcalm's  father  had  been 
a  picture-lover.  His  taste  as  a  connoisseur 
was  attested  by  the  choice  collection  of 
paintings  which  adorned  Sibylla's  future 
home.  It  had  been  sadly  despoiled  at  the 
time  of  Frank's  disgrace.  Still,  in  its 
diminished  glory,  Charles  took  pride  in  the 
collection,  and  enriched  it  occasionally  by 
some  costly  addition.  It  was  his  one 
extravagance.  He  was  delighted  now  to 
have  his  judgment  reinforced  by  Sibylla's. 
His  fancy  now  was,  he  told  his  bride,  that 
they  should  jointly  choose  some  picture, 
whose  loveliness  should  be  associated  in  the 
minds  of  them  both  with  the  pleasures  of 
their    wedding    tour.       '  It    shall    be    my 


V  Honeymoon  ^^ 

honeymoon  present,'  he  said,  'to  the  dear 
mistress  of  Frampton.  It  must  hang  in 
your  boudoir.' 

But  it  was  not  in  matters  of  art  alone 
that  the  two  happy  lovers  found  a  delight- 
ful conformity  of  taste.  These  weeks  in 
Italy  were  to  both  of  them  a  time  of  ideal 
perfection  —  the  perfection  of  happiness. 
Sibylla  recognised  the  realisation  of  her  girl- 
ish dreams  of  a  companionship  of  absolute 
sympathy  and  understanding  of  her  every 
feeling.  Charles  forgot  politics  in  the 
entrancement  of  a  more  thrilling  interest. 
For  once  he  could  unbend. 

*This  is  a  revelation,'  he  broke  out,  as 
they  sat,  one  blazing  day,  pretending  to 
read,  in  a  refuge  of  shade  on  the  mountain 
side — a  cool  stream,  turgid  from  its  glacier, 
rushing  by,  and  Monte  Rosa,  faintly 
pencilled  on  the  horizon,  peeping  through 
the  chestnuts — ^  a  revelation  of  happiness. 
I  have  never  lived  till  now.  I  have 
grovelled,  like  a  slave  in  a  mine,  in  darkness 
and  toil.  But  I  have  never  known  the  joy 
of  life — its  exquisite  pleasure — till  now. 
I  can   scarcely  believe  my  good   fortune. 


5  6  Sibylla  chap. 

What  right  has  a  hard-working  English- 
man among  these  scenes  of  romance  ? 
This  is  a  good  description,  is  it  not, 
that  I  have  just  come  upon  ? — 

In  cities  should  we  English  lie. 

Where  cries  are  rising  ever  new, 
And  men's  incessant  stream  goes  by — 
We  who  pursue 

Our  business  with  unslackening  stride. 

Traverse  in  troops,  with  care-filled  breast. 
The  soft  Mediterranean  side. 
The  Nile,  the  East, 

And  see  all  sights  from  pole  to  pole. 

And  glance,  and  nod,  and  bustle  by. 
And  never  once  possess  our  soul 
Before  we  die.' 

'  Well,'  said  Sibylla,  '  we  will  possess 
our  souls  to-day,  at  any  rate.  Besides,  I 
deny  the  imputation.  We  are  not  so 
prosy  as  Matthew  Arnold  loved  to  paint  us. 
There  is  a  great  deal  of  poetry  in  cities.' 

*  Don't  mention  them,'  said  her  husband, 
by  this  time  in  the  full  swing  of  excitement 
at  his  new-found  mood  ;  '  at  any  rate, 
not  the  famous  city  of  Westminster,  with 
its  poetry  of  a  long  debate.     I  am  delighted 


V  Honeymoon  57 

with  Matthew  Arnold.  Why  have  I  never 
read  him  before,  Sibylla  ?  You  must  take 
my  education  in  hand.' 

*  But  you  must  choose  the  nice  ones,' 
said  Sibylla,  taking  the  volume  out  of  her 
husband's  hand.     '  Is  this  your  vein  ? — 

Some  girl,  who  here  from  castle-bower, 

With  furtive  step  and  cheek  of  flame, 
'Twixt  myrtle-hedges  all  in  flower 
By  moonlight  came 

To  meet  her  pirate-lover's  ship  ; 

And  from  the  wave-kissed  marble  stair 
Beckoned  him  on,  with  quivering  lip 
And  floating  hair  ; 

And  lived  some  moons  in  happy  trance ' 


*  That  is  the  life  to  lead,'  cried  Mont- 
calm, '  a  happy  trance  !  Mine  is  a  happy 
trance  just  now.  I  dread  the  awakening  to 
the  dull  business  of  existence.' 

'  Enjoy  it,'  said  Sibylla,  putting  her 
hand  on  his  ;  '  why  trouble  about  the 
awakening  '^.  ' 

I  have  before  me  a  volume  of  Sibylla's 
journal,  faded  now  almost  into  indistinct- 
ness,   but    written    in    her    beautiful,   firm 


58  Sibylla  chap. 

hand-writing,  unmarred  by  blot  or  erasure 
— a  type  of  her  clear-cut  mind  and  steady 
resolution. 

'  Let  me  record  these  hours  as  best  I 
can,'  she  writes  in  one  place  ;  '  something 
tells  me  that  they  are  the  happiest  of  my 
life.  I  have  an  adoring  husband ;  I  am,  I 
know,  an  adoring  wife.  Is  mutual  adora- 
tion a  folly,  a  delusion  ?  Possibly — but  a 
delightful  and  enchanting  one.  *'  Egoisme 
a  deux,"  as  I  was  reading  just  now — but 
how  sweet  a  selfishness !  Every  day 
reveals  to  us  new  fields  of  sympathy,  new 
plains  in  which  our  minds  move  at  the 
same  level  and  are  tuned  to  the  same  key 
— new  topics  that  are  common  property. 
I  am  under  a  spell,  I  know,  —  incapable 
of  anything  but  enjoyment.  I  am  in  no 
hurry  to  be  disenchanted.  The  air  is  full 
of  delicious  sounds.  I  am  happy,  happy  ! 
Dear  life,  that  brings  one  such  happiness ! ' 

Their  days  were  busily  employed.  At 
Rome  they  found  kind  friends  at  the 
Embassy,  and  an  agreeable  cardinal,  who 
was  a  scholar  and  antiquarian,  told  them  of 
the  last  new  excavations,  and  arranged  for 


V  Honeymoon  59 

them  a  private  interview  with  the  Holy 
Father. 

At  Venice  a  friend's  yacht  had  been 
placed  at  their  disposal,  and  when  they  had 
drunk  their  fill  of  palaces,  picture-galleries, 
churches  and  studios,  they  embarked  for  a 
cruise  among  lovely  Greek  islands,  bathed 
in  the  exquisite  atmosphere,  which  makes 
chff  and  headland,  wave-kissed  islet  and 
mountain  towering  in  the  background,  seem 
like  a  dream  of  fairyland.  The  Medi- 
terranean was  in  its  sweetest  mood,  and 
seemed  but  to  caress  the  shores  on  which 
its  ripples  broke — the  very  type  of  loving 
gentleness. 

'  We  live  in  an  enchanted  world,'  Sibylla 
writes  of  one  of  these  days  ;  '  I  was  reading 
this  morning  :  "  We  mortals  have  our 
divine  moments,  when  love  is  satisfied  in 
the  completeness  of  the  beloved  object." 
These  divine  moments  are  mine  just  now. 
I  am  more  than  satisfied.  Charles  realises 
the  best  of  all  I  ever  dreamed  about  him.' 

Into  this  summer  tranquillity  a  mandate 
from  England  fell  like  a  bolt  from  the  blue. 
Things    had    been   going    badly  with    the 


6o  Sibylla  chap. 

Government,  one  of  the  whips  wrote  to 
Montcalm.  It  looked  as  if  the  dissolution 
could  not  be  much  longer  delayed.  It 
might  even  be  an  affair  of  weeks.  There 
was  a  letter,  too,  from  Charles  Montcalm's 
election  agent,  giving  a  still  gloomier  view 
of  the  position,  and  announcing  that  his 
opponent's  party  were  busily  at  work,  and 
were  gaining  ground  with  dangerous 
rapidity.  The  local  leaders  were  strongly  of 
his  opinion  that  Montcalm's  presence  was 
essential.  His  success  at  the  impending 
election  depended  on  an  immediate  personal 
canvass. 

'  That  is  the  worst  of  Fellows,'  said 
Montcalm  in  a  tone  of  annoyance,  as  he 
tossed  the  letter  across  the  table  to  Sibylla  ; 
'  he  is  invaluable  as  an  agent, — energetic, 
assiduous,  and  loyal  to  the  core  ;  but  he  is 
always  in  a  fuss.  I  do  not  believe  matters 
are  as  serious  as  he  makes  out  ;  but  I 
cannot  be  sure  that  they  are  not.  I  must 
go  at  once.  There  is  the  curse  of  Parlia- 
mentary life  !  It  is  a  form  of  slavery — a  bad 
form  ;  some  philanthropist  should  preach  a 
crusade  against  it ! ' 


V  Honeymoon  6 1 

'  We  have  had  a  delightful  month,'  said 
Sibylla;  '  we  are  fortunate  to  have  been  left 
so  long.' 

*  We  are  unfortunate  to  be  cut  so  short,' 
her  husband  grumbled  ;  '  I  never  felt  less 
inclined  to  obey  an  unwelcome  call.  Un- 
fortunately in  life  the  unpleasanter  of  two 
courses  is  generally  the  right  one.  1 
suppose  I  ought  to  go.' 

*  Then  let  us  go  at  once,'  said  Sibylla. 
'  Nothing  is  a  misfortune  that  we  do 
together.' 

The  spell  was  broken.  Montcalm  pre- 
sently became  another  man — busy,  reserved, 
preoccupied.  He  was  no  longer  the 
delightful  lover.  His  head  now  was  full  of 
political  speculations,  political  anxieties — 
political  plots.  Sibylla  was  impressed  by 
the  suddenness  and  the  completeness  of  the 
change  in  her  husband's  mood.  It  had 
been  settled  that  they  should  go  to  her 
father's  London  house  on  their  return  for 
the  season. 

'  I  must  stipulate,'  Lord  Belmont  had 
said,  '  that  you  come  to  me  in  Portman 
Square    for  your    first  season  in    London. 


62  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


That  will  give  you  time  to  look  about  you 
and  make  up  your  minds  at  leisure  about 
your  future  abode.  Then  you  must  ask 
me  to  come  and  stay  with  you  at  Frampton 
in  the  autumn,  when  I  come  back  from 
Homburg.  I  shall  make  no  other  engage- 
ment. I  shall  enjoy  having  you  to  myself 
while  Charles  is  away  at  his  election,  should 
you  not  be  with  him.  When  he  comes 
back  he  shall  have  the  library,  where  no  one 
ever  goes,  and  which  will  be  as  quiet  as  the 
grave.  He  can  see  his  constituents  there, 
and  be  as  independent  as  he  pleases,  and  as 
undisturbed.' 

The  prospect  was  highly  attractive  to 
Sibylla.  She  was  suffering  a  reaction  from 
her  recent  exalted  mood.  Home  thoughts 
had  begun  to  assert  their  sway.  She  was 
conscious  of  finding  the  prospect  of  her 
father's  society  delightful.  His  note  of 
cordial,  unconscious  fondness  touched  her. 
She  was  longing  to  see  him  again.  The 
thought  of  being  with  him  once  more 
lifted  a  load  from  her  spirits,  and  restored 
her  natural  gaiety.  It  needed  restoration, 
for,  since  her  husband's  plunge    back  into 


V  Honeymoon  63 

politics,  she    had    felt  half-deserted.     The 
isolation  depressed  her. 

'  You  will  like  to  pay  your  father  a  visit, 
Sibylla,  while  I  am  in  the  north,'  Montcalm 
had  said,  *  will  you  not  ^  He  will  be  so 
delighted  to  have  you.' 

*  But,'  objected  Sibylla,  '  he  would  be 
delighted  to  think  of  me  being  at  your 
election.  He  would  think  it  my  natural 
place.  If  it  is  possible,  Charles,  I  should 
like  to  go  with  you.  It  is  my  strong  wish. 
I  know  that  you  do  not  understand  it  ;  but 
you  must  indulge  me.  Our  tour  is  broken 
off.  I  am  well  content  that  it  should  be, 
for  such  a  cause  ;  but  let  me  share  in  the 
fight.  Perhaps  I  could  help  you  ;  at  any 
rate,  no  one  could  wish  so  ardently  for  your 
success.'  Montcalm  was  touched  by  the 
sort  of  imploring  tone  and  ardent  affection 
of  his  wife's  appeal, — touched  but  not 
convinced.     He  was  immovable. 

*  My  dear  Sibylla,'  he  answered,  '  you 
must  believe  my  experience,  unfortunately  a 
prolonged  one.  You  do  not  know  what  you 
ask  when  you  wish  to  plunge  into  the  mire 
of  an  election.     It  is  all  that  is  detestable  ; 


64  Sibylla  chap. 

its  detestableness  would  be  enhanced  if  I 
felt,  all  the  time,  that  you  were  exposed  to 
it — were  in  the  thick  of  it.  An  election  is 
the  last  place  where  a  refined  woman  ought 
to  peril  her  refinement.  Be  guided  by  me. 
Do  me  the  great  favour  of  not  renewing  a 
request  which  I  should  feel  it  dishonourable 
to  comply  with.  Ask  me  anything  but 
that.' 

'  There  is  an  end  of  it,  of  course,'  said 
Sibylla,  in  a  tone  of  deep  disappointment  ; 
'  but  do  you  not  hate  elections  overmuch  ? 
Peril  one's  refinement !  How  many  of  my 
friends  are  doing  it  ^ ' 

Her  husband  had  pronounced  his  ulti- 
matum, and  was  not  inclined  to  prolong 
the  conversation.  He  had  carried  his 
way,  but  as  despots  carry  it,  by  sheer 
assertion  of  personal  will.  Sibylla  was  un- 
convinced. He  had  not  seriously  at- 
tempted to  convince  her.  Her  submission 
was  simply  powerlessness  to  resist.  She 
felt  wounded  and  aggrieved,  almost  in- 
clined to  a  rebellious  mood. 

Lord  Belmont  was  delighted  to  welcome 
his  daughter  and  her  husband.       He  was 


V  Honeymoon  6^ 

evidently  surprised  at  their  sudden  return, 
and  did  not  perceive  its  necessity. 

'  I  did  not  expect  you/  he  said  ;  'political 
zeal  is  all  very  well  ;  but  on  a  wedding 
tour!  was  it  really  necessary?' 

'  Unluckily,'  said  Montcalm,  with  some 
irritation  in  his  tone,  and  turning  pale,  as 
he  did  whenever  he  spoke  under  excitement 
or  the  influence  of  strong  feeling,  '  politics 
will  not  wait  for  wedding  tours  or  anything 
else.  You  may  be  sure,  Lord  Belmont, 
that  I  should  not  have  cut  short  our  tour 
without  sufficient  cause.  It  was  an  intense 
disappointment  to  both  of  us.' 

'  I  am  admiring  your  virtue,  my  dear 
Montcalm,'  said  Lord  Belmont ;  'it  is 
admirable  ;  may  fortune  crown  it — as  it 
deserves  to  be  crowned — with  success.' 

'  But  there  really  was  no  doubt  about 
its  being  necessary,'  said  Sibylla  with  eager- 
ness ;  '  the  enemy  is  already  in  force,  and 
almost  in  possession  of  the  field.' 

It  turned  out  that  the  agent  was  right. 
A  few  days  later  the  Government  encoun- 
tered an  unexpected  defeat,  more  pronounced 
than  any  of  its  predecessors  ;  the  cry  for  a 

VOL.    I  F 


66  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


dissolution  gathered  sudden  strength.  The 
Times^  in  a  solemn  leader,  whose  gravity 
wore  the  air  of  inspiration,  pronounced  that 
the  moment  had  arrived  when  an  appeal 
to  the  country  could  no  longer  be  honour- 
ably delayed.  The  evening  Opposition 
papers  howled  a  responsive  chorus.  Even 
the  Government  organs  hinted  that  the 
position  was  becoming  untenable.  Every 
hour  fresh  rumours  filled  the  air.  The 
clubs  were  crowded  with  men  seeking 
gossip  or  retailing  it.  Before  the  week 
was  out  Ministers  were  again  in  a  minority. 
A  dissolution  was  announced.  Montcalm 
brought  his  Address  for  his  father-in-law's 
criticism  and  advice.  He  was  proceeding 
to  read  it. 

'  Stop ! '  said  Lord  Belmont,  getting 
up  and  ringing  the  bell  ;  '  let  us  send  for 
Sibylla.  She  has  a  fine  ear  for  style.  I 
always  get  her  opinion  on  anything  that  1 
write  of  importance.' 

'  It  is  no  question  of  style,'  said  Mont- 
calm ;  '  the  good  people  of  Belhaven  do 
not  know  what  it  means,  happily  for 
me.     I   only  wanted    your  opinion   as    to 


V  Honeymoon  67 

how  to  deal  with    one    or    two    awkward 
points.' 

*  Well,'  said  Lord  Belmont,  '  you  shall 
have  my  opinion,  reinforced  by  Sibylla's — 
which  is  more  than  twice  as  good  :  but 
perhaps  you  have  consulted  her  already.' 

'  It  had  not  occurred  to  me,'  Montcalm 
answered,  '  that  she  would  care  to  be 
consulted,  or  would  have  an  opinion  on  the 
subject.  It  is  more  a  question  of  an 
election  agent's  judgment  than  a  woman's 
taste.' 

'  My  dear  Charles,'  said  his  father-in-law, 
*  a  wise  woman's  judgment  is  the  wise  man's 
best  touchstone  :  and  here  comes  the  wise 
woman ! ' 

*  I  was  not  prepared  for  an  audience,' 
said  Charles,  as  his  wife  came  and  sat  down 
by  him.  '  Now,  Sibylla,  please  imagine 
yourself  an  enlightened  and  independent 
Belhavenite,  and  say  how  this  strikes  you.' 

'  Business-like,  at  any  rate,'  said  Lord 
Belmont,  as  Montcalm's  dry,  well-balanced 
phrases  closed  ;  ^  and  safe,  I  suppose  ;  but 
inspiring .?  Does  it  do  justice  to  the 
occasion — the  gravity  of  the  occasion  ^     It 


68  Sibylla  chap. 

is   a  crisis,  remember.     Is  it    not  a  little 
tame  ? ' 

*  Oh  ! '  said  Montcalm,  a  little  taken 
aback  by  his  father-in-law*s  criticism,  '  you 
cannot  make  that  sort  of  thing  too  tame. 
It  is  what  the  British  voter  likes.  I  have 
reduced  my  addresses  to  the  perfection  of 
tameness.  The  thing  to  do  with  a  crisis  is 
to  say  as  little  as  possible  about  it.  Then 
you  are  committed  to  nothing.' 

'  But  you  will  have  a  fight  .^ '  asked 
Sibylla. 

*  A  fight } '  cried  Lord  Belmont ;  '  I 
should  rather  think  he  will — a  good  stand- 
up,  hard -fought  battle.  The  Belhaven 
elections  are  notorious.  I  wish  I  could  be 
there.     My  blood  warms  to  it  already.' 

*  And  mine,'  cried  Sibylla,  catching  her 
father's  mood,  which  was  several  degrees 
more  mercurial  than  that  of  her  husband  ; 
'  but  there  is  no  doubt  about  victory } ' 

*  Then  it  would  not  be  a  battle,'  said 
Montcalm,  laughing  ;  *  the  point  of  a 
fight — a  political  fight  most  of  all — is  its 
uncertainty.  The  only  certain  thing  is 
that  the    improbable  generally  comes  off. 


V  Honeymoon  69 

This  time,  however,  I  mean  to  succeed.  I 
shall  wear  your  badge.  I  will  carry  it  to 
victory ! ' 

*  To  victory ! '  cried  Lord  Belmont,  the 
ashes  of  old  election  fights  springing 
suddenly  into  a  blaze. 

*  To  victory  ! '  echoed  Sibylla  ;  *  my 
dear  and  gallant  knight !  my  song  last  night 
was  prophetic ! — 

Cock  up  your  beaver,  and  cock  it  fu'  sprush  ! 
We'll  over  the  Border  and  give  them  a  brush  ! 
There's  somebody  coming '11  teach  better  behaviour  ; 
Heh  !   Charlie,  lad,  cock  up  your  beaver  ! ' 


There  was  inspiration  in  Sibylla's  tones, 
a  charming  brightness  in  her  eye,  anima- 
tion in  her  gesture,  as  she  declaimed 
the  verse — animation,  pathos,  infectious 
enthusiasm.  She  had  never  seemed  so 
beautiful.  Charles  Montcalm's  cool  tem- 
perament warmed  with  an  unaccustomed 
glow.  The  scene  touched  him — the  fine, 
old,  courtly  statesman,  the  lovely  woman, 
stirred  by  zeal  for  his  success — for  him.  A 
sudden  pang  of  delight  throbbed  through 
recesses  of  a  nature  where  such  genial 
influences  had  hitherto  been  but  seldom  felt. 


70  Sibylla 


CHAP,    V 


Life  had  given  him  nothing  so  good  as 
this.  It  was  a  supreme  moment — a 
revelation !  He  seized  Sibylla's  hand,  he 
carried  it  to  his  lips.  He  kissed  it  with 
fervour.  There  was  a  profound  tenderness 
— rapture — in  his  look. 

'  You  are  adorable,'  he  breathed,  too  low 
for  any  ear  but  hers  :  '  I  am  a  dull  dog — 
you  must  inspire  me  ! ' 

Sibylla  knew  that  with  her  husband  such 
a  demonstration  meant  much.  He  was 
profoundly  moved.  She  rewarded  him 
with  a  look  of  love.  Two  days  later  he 
was  in  the  thick  of  his  election.  He  had 
made  no  further  allusion  to  Sibylla's  wish 
to  share  its  fortunes  with  him,  nor  had  she 
chosen  to  allude  to  it.  Once  more  she 
found  herself  alone  with  her  father,  her 
only  special  share  in  the  election — which  had 
now  become  the  one  absorbing  topic  of 
attention — the  daily  bulletin  from  her 
husband,  telling  her,  in  hurried  but  cheerful 
language,  of  the  progress  of  his  canvass. 
'  Everything,'  he  wrote,  '  is  going  well.' 


CHAPTER    VI 

AN     ELECTION     EPISODE 

A  vulgar  comment  will  be  made  of  it, 

And  that  supposed  by  the  common  rout, 

Against  your  yet  ungalled  estimation. 

That  may  with  foul  intrusion  enter  in 

And  dwell  upon  your  grave  when  you  are  dead. 

An  incident  which  occurred  at  one  of  Mont- 
calm's meetings,  and  to  which  his  letters  had 
made  no  allusion,  was  hardly  consistent  with 
his  cheerful  account  of  his  expedition.  There 
was  a  crowded,  noisy  gathering  in  a  suburb 
of  Belhaven,  where  Radicalism  was  rampant, 
and  Montcalm's  opponents  were  entrenched 
in  strength.  His  organising  committee 
had,  all  along,  regarded  the  place  with 
anxiety.  The  question  of  the  management 
of  the  occasion  had  been  discussed.  Nervous 
advisers    had    suggested    the    ignominious 


72  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


precaution  of  a  *  ticket '  meeting.  If  it 
were  '  open '  there  was  the  likelihood,  they 
said,  of  serious  disturbance. 

*  By  all  means,'  exclaimed  Montcalm, 
on  whom  the  possibility  of  danger  always 
had  an  exhilarating  effect,  *  let  us  have  an 
open  meeting !  I  don't  care  for  a  packed 
audience  ;  I  hate  preaching  to  the  converted. 
I  would  rather  risk  a  row.' 

The  appearance  of  the  Hall  on  the  even- 
ing of  the  meeting  justified  the  anticipations 
of  the  prudent  party.  A  densely  packed 
audience  filled  it — floor,  gallery,  and  passage 
— and  rendered  impossible  all  extraneous 
attempts  to  maintain  orderly  behaviour. 
There  were  numerous  knots  of  roughs, 
who  were  acting,  apparently,  on  a  pre- 
concerted plan,  and  abetted  each  other's 
efforts  to  disturb  the  harmony  of  the  even- 
ing. The  Police  Superintendent  came 
into  the  Committee-room  with  a  grave  face 
to  say  that  all  things  pointed  to  a  stormy 
meeting.  It  was  obvious  to  any  one,  who 
could  read  the  signs,  that  a  large  portion 
of  the  multitude  was  ready  for  a  row,  and 
that   there  were   not    a    few  present  who 


VI  An  Election  Episode  73 

intended  to  produce  one.  Montcalm^s 
appearance  on  the  platform  was  greeted 
with  shouts  in  which  the  yells  of  the  oppos- 
ing faction  were  not  completely  drowned. 
But  the  appearance  of  the  candidate  was 
impressive :  it  bespoke  calmness,  deter- 
mination, undaunted  courage.  Montcalm's 
first  few  sentences — nervous^  resolute,  and 
unflinching — caught  the  ear  of  the  multi- 
tude. His  speech,  though  continually  in- 
terrupted, was  listened  to  with  attention. 
At  its  close  the  candidate  invited  interroga- 
tion. Numerous  questions  had  been  asked 
and  answered,  as  satisfactorily  as  such  an 
occasion  allows.  These  interrogations  were 
always  intensely  distasteful  to  Montcalm. 
They  brought  into  painful  distinctness  the 
unreality,  the  superficiality,  the  vulgarity 
of  the  whole  concern.  They  emphasised 
the  essential  misfortune  of  an  extended 
suffrage — that  it  places  upon  the  political 
stage  thousands  of  ignorant  individuals 
who  have  no  qualification  for  serious  politi- 
cal thought,  and  no  real  aspiration  to  it. 
How  to  reason  seriously  with  such  an 
audience }     It  was  a  sort  of  dishonesty  to 


^4  Sibylla  chap. 

pretend  to  reason.  The  old-fashioned 
bribery  and  corruption  were  less  immoral. 
Their  questions  were  so  irrelevant,  irra- 
tional, so  irritatingly  narrow  in  scope,  so 
wide  of  the  real  issues.  Montcalm's  com- 
posure of  mind  and  demeanour  stood  him 
in  good  stead  under  the  ordeal.  Experience 
gave  him  confidence.  Odious  as  it  all  was, 
he  had  borne  it  before  :  he  could  bear  it 
again.  If  nothing  else  could  be  done,  he 
was  conscious  of  the  faculty  of  looking 
absolutely  unmoved,  and  saying  something, 
the  coolness  of  which  disconcerted  his 
assailant. 

The  evening  was  drawing  onward  to  its 
close.  The  crowd  had  become  interested 
and  excited.  The  shyness  which  checked 
some  would-be  interpellators  at  the  outset, 
had  worn  off,  and  had  given  place  to  a 
half- impudent  familiarity.  Presently  it 
became  obvious  that  something  unusual 
was  going  on  at  the  further  end  of  the  Hall. 
There  was  an  angry  altercation,  something 
of  a  scuffle,  the  eager  cries  of  onlookers, 
hostile  or  sympathetic.  At  last  an  excited, 
miserable-looking   man — his  haggard   face 


VI  An  Election  Episode  y^ 

alight  with  the  fire  of  fanaticism — got  him- 
self hoisted  on  to  his  companions'  shoulders. 
He  said  something  which  produced  a 
sudden  silence  around  him,  the  silence  of 
suspense,  interest,  inquisitiveness.  The 
silence  spread  in  an  instant  through  the 
whole  assembly.  His  voice  rang  out  now 
clear  and  piercing,  with  the  distinctness  of 
a  practised  speaker.  It  reached  the  listeners 
on  the  platform. 

*  I  want  to  know,'  he  said,  '  a  piece 
of  family  history  —  our  member's  family 
and  mine.  What  has  become  of  Lizzie 
Marsh  ? ' 

A  chorus  of  cries  of  '  Shame  ! '  '  Order  ! ' 
attested  the  general  sense  of  disapproval  of 
a  question  that  was,  on  the  face  of  it,  out- 
rageous. Montcalm  rose  to  the  occasion. 
His  marble  features,  always  pale,  now  deadly 
white,  bespoke  a  lofty  indignation.  His 
mien  was  intrepid.  He  drew  himself  up, 
and  stood  erect  and  undaunted.  His  eye 
flashed.  A  fine  scorn  curved  his  lip.  He 
looked  the  type  of  courage.  There  was 
complete  silence  as  he  began  to  speak. 
Thousands  were  holding    their   breath  in 


76  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


expectation,  anxious  to  lose  no  syllable  of 
his  reply. 

'  We  are  here,'  he  said,  *  for  politics.  I 
am  here  to  explain  my  political  views  ;  you 
are  here  to  learn  them,  and  to  ask  such 
questions  as  will  help  you  to  do  so.  Such 
questions  I  am  answering  to  the  best  of  my 
power.  You  are  in  your  rights.  But  I 
refuse  to  be  insulted.  I  refuse  to  answer 
questions  whose  one  object  is  to  insult — 
questions  which  have  no  sort  of  bearing  on 
public  affairs — which  it  is  base  to  ask,  and 
which  it  would  be  infamy  to  answer.' 

A  shout  of  applause  drowned  the  con- 
cluding phrases  of  Montcalm's  answer.  It 
was  taken  up  through  the  assembly.  It 
pealed  and  crashed — a  solid  mass  of  sound 
— through  the  great  Hall.  It  died  away  : 
it  broke  out  afresh  and  rolled  on  in  a  suc- 
cession of  diminuendos,  crescendos,  fortis- 
simos,  till  fatigue  necessitated  a  respite. 
Montcalm's  bold,  defiant  reply  had  pro- 
duced a  great  effect.  Britons  hate  a  foul 
blow.  This  was  felt  to  be  one.  Montcalm 
had  received  it  with  fortitude  :  he  had  re- 
pelled it  effectively.    His  sentences  had  sent 


VI  An  Election  Episode  77 

a  thrill  through  the  huge  assembly  to  its 
utmost  confines.  For  once  he  had  aroused 
personal  enthusiasm  —  an  achievement 
which,  as  a  rule,  his  proud  temperament 
and  reserved  dignity  of  manner  rendered 
impossible.  He  had  been  the  object  of  a 
gross  insult,  an  outrage  on  the  accepted 
rules  of  the  game  in  political  warfare.  He 
had  comported  himself  in  a  manner  that 
even  his  enemies  admired,  and  which  his 
friends  regarded  as  heroic.  He  was  no 
longer  a  mere  political  abstraction — the 
representative  of  a  party,  the  exponent  of 
a  creed.  He  had  shown  himself  a  man. 
It  is  easier  to  feel  warmly  about  a  man  than 
about  an  abstraction.  So  far  Montcalm 
had  profited  by  the  occurrence.  He  had 
achieved  popularity. 

But  there  was  another,  less  agreeable 
aspect.  When  the  first  momentary  effect 
of  Montcalm's  answer  had  died  away^  there 
remained  in  the  minds  of  all  but  the  most 
thoughtless  a  reflection  that  there  was 
something  within  the  member's  knowledge 
which,  for  some  reason  or  other,  he  did  not 
care  to  disclose,  and  that  he  resented  the 


78  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


demand  for  disclosure.     It  was  a  disagree- 
able reflection. 

The  question  had  been  improper,  of 
course,  unjustifiable.  None  the  less,  the 
fact  remained  that  it  had  been  unanswered. 
A  sense  of  mystery  was  engendered  in 
some,  a  suspicion  in  others.  The  unruly 
portion  of  the  audience  had  discovered  a 
congenial  instrument  of  unruliness  —  if 
needs  be,  of  persecution — the  apt  material 
for  mischief.  They  were  loath  to  abandon 
a  phrase  which  had  a  delicious  flavour  of 
ribaldry.  Again  and  again  some  mis- 
chievous spirit  yelled  out  the  query,  *  What 
has  become  of  Lizzie  Marsh  ? '  and  the  fact 
that  he  was  speedily  suppressed  in  no 
degree  diminished  the  force  of  the  inquiry. 
More  than  once  the  name  rang  in  Mont- 
calm's ears  as  he  drove  homeward  through 
the  crowded  streets  to  his  committee-room. 
The  committee  had  already  assembled. 
There  was  a  sudden  pause  in  the  conversa- 
tion as  Montcalm  entered.  He  took  his 
place  with  perfect  composure.  But  for  the 
slight  additional  pallor  of  his  face,  there 
was  no  symptom  of  disturbance  or  distress. 


VI  An  Election  Episode  79 

He  spoke  of  the  meeting  as  encouraging. 
The  tone  was  less  hostile  than  it  had  been, 
a  week  before,  at  similar  gatherings.  The 
audience  was  a  rough  one,  but  it  had 
listened  with  interest,  and  had  been,  on  the 
whole,  friendly.  Montcalm  completely 
ignored  the  episode  which  was  uppermost 
in  the  thoughts  of  all — the  unexpected 
interruption.  It  might,  for  any  notice  that 
he  vouchsafed  to  it,  have  been  a  mere 
piece  of  boisterous  nonsense,  bawled  out  by 
some  half- tipsy  onlooker,  and  no  sooner 
uttered  than  forgotten.  More  than  one 
member  of  the  committee  would  have 
given  much  to  know  the  truth,  if  only  he 
had  dared  to  ask.  But  there  was  no  man 
present  who  was  courageous  enough  for 
that.  There  was  something  in  Montcalm's 
air  and  look,  which  discouraged  familiarity 
— which  made  familiarity,  which  he  might 
regard  as  impertinent,  impossible.  Each 
one  felt  that,  if  Montcalm  intended  to  say 
anything  on  the  subject,  he  would  do  it 
without  invitation,  and  that  an  unwelcome 
inquiry  might  provoke  a  disagreeable  retort. 
All  things,  accordingly,  went   on  in  their 


8o  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


accustomed  course.  The  reports  of  the 
day  were  read  ;  the  arrangements  for  the 
morrow  were  discussed  and  settled.  The 
committee  broke  up.  Montcalm  walked 
back  to  his  hotel  with  one  of  his  committee- 
men. They  parted  at  the  entrance.  Mont- 
calm mounted  to  his  room,  set  his  servant 
at  liberty,  and  locked  the  door.  At  last 
he  was  alone.  Alone  :  but  no  peaceful 
solitude  !  Now  that  the  necessity  for 
outward  calm  had  ceased,  Montcalm  felt 
incapable  any  longer  of  self-repression.  The 
event  of  the  evening  had  stirred  his  nature 
to  its  profoundest  depths.  A  rude  hand  had 
been  laid  on  nerves  where  a  feather's  touch 
meant  agony.  He  had  endured  that  torture 
with  a  stoical  show  of  indifference  ;  but  his 
whole  system  was  quivering  with  its  effect. 
His  heart  was  thumping  loud  and  quick. 
He  was  brought  face  to  face  with  the  one 
thing  in  life  he  really  feared,  the  feeling  of 
disgrace.  His  hand  shook,  his  powers  of 
self-control  were  exhausted.  For  once  he 
had  ceased  to  be  master  of  himself. 
*  What  has  become  of  Lizzie  Marsh  ^  ' 
The  horrid  query  was  ringing  in  his  ear. 


VI  An  Election  Episode  8  r 

'  What  a  question  to  be  asked  of  me,  and 
how  many  more  such  are  hereafter  to  be 
asked?  Do  evil  things  never  die  —  not 
even  when  those  who  did  them  are  dead 
and  gone  ?  Am  I  to  be  persecuted  to  the 
end  about  poor  Frank's  misdeeds,  by  every 
scoundrel  who  chooses  to  fling  a  piece  of 
dirt  at  me — at  me  ?  at  us  ?  '  The  thought 
flashed  through  his  brain  that  he  was  now 
a  hundred  times  more  assailable  than 
heretofore  ;  that  disgrace  meant  something 
new  and  more  terrible  ;  that  a  new  and 
infinitely  more  delicate  sense  of  shame  had 
been  developed  in  his  mind.  In  old  days 
a  scandal  could  have  been  confronted,  like 
any  other  disagreeable  thing,  with  a  sturdy 
stoicism,  not  quite  remote  from  indifl'erence. 
But  Sibylla's  husband  could  not  be  stoical. 
He  could  not  be  indifferent  to  a  family 
dishonour,  which  should,  in  however  remote 
a  degree,  involve  her  in  its  contamination. 
Montcalm's  daily  letter  to  Sibylla  had  still 
to  be  written  to  catch  the  midnight  mail. 
He  sat  down  to  write  it  :  but  it  was  in 
vain.  Brain  and  hand  declined  their 
accustomed    offices.       The    very    idea    of 

VOL.   I  G 


Sibylla 


CHAP. 


bringing  Sibylla  into  contact  with  the 
hateful  scene  was  intolerable.  It  seemed 
a  sort  of  profanation  to  think  of  her  in 
such  a  connection.  Charles  at  last  forced 
himself  to  write  :  but  how  jejune  and  barren 
a  performance  !  How  impossible  that  there 
should  be  nature,  spontaneity,  real  outpour- 
ing of  sentiment  with  this  detested  secret 
lurking  in  the  background,  stifling  the 
genial  outflow  of  love. 

Sibylla  gave  a  sigh,  next  day,  as  she  per- 
used, only  too  quickly,  the  few  poor  lines 
which  contained  all  that  her  husband  had 
to  tell  her  about  himself.  A  secret  is  be- 
numbing, and  Montcalm's  better  self  was 
half  benumbed.  He  could  not  bring  him- 
self to  say  anything  on  this  hateful  topic  to 
his  wife.  She  need  never  know  of  it.  She 
must  not. 

The  letter  written  and  directed,  Mont- 
calm sat  on — the  victim  of  a  tumultuous 
rush  of  thought.  It  was  in  vain  to  think 
of  sleep,  in  vain  to  read  or  write.  His 
reverie  was  presently  broken  by  a  knock  at 
the  door,  and  an  enquiry  by  one  of  the  inn 
servants,  whether  he  would  receive  a  con- 


VI  An  Election  Episode  83 

stituent.  Montcalm  had  always  encouraged 
his  constituents  to  consult  him  in  private 
on  any  point  on  which  they  desired  enlight- 
enment as  to  his  views  :  he  had  announced 
that,  when  not  publicly  engaged,  he  would 
always  be  glad  to  receive  any  of  them  who 
wished  for  an  interview.  Some  had  come 
and  been  received  in  the  evenings,  and  there 
were  strict  orders  that  no  one  should  be 
denied.  The  servant  who  announced  this 
visitor  evidently  thought  him  something 
exceptional.  The  man,  he  said,  seemed 
very  much  excited — was,  he  should  say, 
under  the  effects  of  liquor.  He  looked  as 
if  he  might  easily  become  violent.  On  the 
whole  he  doubted  whether  Montcalm  would 
do  well  to  admit  him.  It  might  be  well 
to  send  for  the  police. 

'  Nonsense,'  said  Montcalm,  with  a  slight 
tone  of  contempt,  'show  him  up  at  once.' 

In  another  moment  a  forlorn,  weird 
being,  in  the  dress  of  the  better  sort  of 
artisan,  stood  before  him.  Montcalm 
recognised  his  visitor  at  once.  It  was  the 
disturber  of  the  evening  meeting.  His 
features   were    haggard,  careworn,  sorrow- 


84  Sibylla  chap. 

stricken.  His  dilated,  eager  eye  bespoke  the 
fanatic.  His  mobile  lips  were  quivering  ; 
his  gesture  was  restless,  impassioned.  He 
looked  like  a  melancholy  madman.  Every- 
thing about  him  told  of  intense  excitement. 

Montcalm's  face  wore  the  aspect  of  pro- 
found calm,  which  was  his  instinctive 
method  of  confronting  danger.  The  in- 
truder seemed  cowed  by  his  immovable 
demeanour  ;  he  found  it  impossible, 
apparently,  to  speak.  The  two  men  looked 
at  each  other  in  silence,  as  though  measuring 
their  strength  for  the  encounter. 

'  You  want  to  see  me,'  Montcalm  said 
at  last.  '  There  is  a  chair — sit  down,  and 
tell  me  what  it  is  you  want.' 

The  man  took  no  notice  of  the  invitation 
to  sit  down.  He  still  could  hardly  trust 
himself  to  speak  :  his  voice  trembled. 

'  My  name  is  Jennings,'  he  said.  '  I  will 
tell  you  what  I  want,  Mr.  Montcalm.  I 
want  to  know  what  I  asked  you  to-night  at 
the  meeting — what  I  will  ask  you  where- 
ever  I  get  the  chance,  till  you  are  forced  to 
tell  me.  Where  is  your  brother  and  the 
girl    he    ruined — my    Lizzie.^       She    was 


VI 


An  Election  Episode  85 


betrothed  to  me — mine  in  God's  sight. 
He  seduced  her  ;  he  stole  her  from  parents 
and  home.  He  befooled  her  into  loving  him. 
He  was  a  gentleman  by  birth  :  that  helped 
him  to  do  it.  He  spared  nothing — he  spared 
no  one.  It  killed  her  father.  Her  mother, 
broken  down  by  shame,  sorrow,  and  misery, 
still  lives  with  me — if  life  it  can  be  called. 
That  home — and  mine — was  broken  up  :  we 
are  dishonoured,  ruined  ;  and  all  to  please 
a  rich  man's  whim,  his  wicked,  cruel  whim. 
And  then  you  wonder  we  working  men  are 
socialists  and  hate  the  rich  !  I  hate  him — 
I  have  sworn  revenge.  Why  could  he  not 
leave  us  alone  .^  We  did  no  harm  to  any 
one.  We  were  quiet  folk  and  God-fearing 
— we  are  Methodists.  I  used  to  preach  ; 
I  was  a  good  preacher,  but  I  shall  never 
preach  again !  How  could  I  preach,  or 
pray,  or  tell  men  to  trust  a  merciful  God, 
with  this  foul  wrong  burning  at  my  soul. 
I  can  think  but  of  one  thing.  I  have  sworn 
to  find  her,  if  she  is  to  be  found  on  earth. 
I  have  sworn  to  find  him  too !  Where  are 
they  now  } '  Jennings'  face  by  this  time 
was    livid    with    fury.       The    fire    of  the 


86  Sibylla  chap. 

fanatic  was  consuming  him.  His  un- 
conscious rhetoric  was  telHng  on  himself, 
was  overpowering  him.  He  advanced  now 
close  to  the  table  in  front  of  Montcalm 
and  repeated  his  question  with  a  solemn 
vehemence  :  *  Where  are  they  r ' 

Montcalm  met  him  with  an  air  of 
supreme  coolness.  His  nerve  served  him 
well  in  such  scenes.  His  attitude  was  un- 
changed. He  betrayed  nothing  but  the 
busy  man's  impatience  at  a  bootless 
interruption. 

'  I  gave  you  my  answer  this  evening/  he 
said,  '  the  only  answer  that  I  will  give  to  a 
question  so  asked — not  for  the  purpose  of 
information,  but,  as  you  confess,  for  revenge, 
malice,  and  hatred.  If  any  of  the  accusa- 
tions you  bring  against  my  brother  be  true, 
I  would  do  anything  in  my  power  to 
alleviate  the  sorrow,  to  atone,  if  possible, 
for  the  wrong.  But  I  will  aid  no  scheme 
of  revenge — and  I  will  yield  to  no  menace. 
No  one  shall  force  me  to  speak,  supposing 
I  were  able  to  tell  you  what  you  want. 
You  may  do  your  worst.  If  this  is  all  you 
have  to  say,  you  had  better  go.' 


VI  An  Election  Episode  87 

Montcalm  moved  his  hand  to  ring  the 
bell  which  stood  on  the  table  before  him. 

*  Stop,'  cried  the  other,  suddenly  chang- 
ing tone  ;  '  do  not  send  me  away  like  that ! 
Have  mercy.  I  threaten  you  with  nothing. 
I  am  half  mad  with  sorrow  and  shame.  I 
was  a  happy  man,  none  happier — a 
prosperous  man.  Lizzie  was  a  good  girl, 
good  as  the  best.  I  loved  her — I  know 
that  she  loved  me.  We  were  happy  lovers 
— most  happy  ;  we  had  no  thought  but 
thoughts  of  honest  love.  There  was  no 
shade  of  difference  between  us.  Then  came 
your  brother — and  then  our  troubles  began. 
She  knew  that  they  were  beginning  ;  she 
felt  it,  as  did  I.  She  could  not  resist  him — 
he  was  too  strong  ;  his  flattery  too  sweet. 
He  lavished  presents  on  her.  Then  I  grew 
angry,  like  a  fool,  and  was  rough  to  her. 
He  dazzled  her.  At  last  she  yielded.  She 
went  off :  she  wrote  her  father  a  letter.  I 
have  it  here.  We  have  heard  nothing  of 
her  since,  nothing  but  a  rumour — a  rumour 
that  she  was  married  to  your  brother,  and 
that  she  died  in  America.  You  know,  surely, 
if  it  is  true.     It  would  cure  her  mother's 


88  Sibylla  chap. 

sorrow  to  know  she  died  an  honest  woman, 
or,  if  she  lives,  to  help  her  back  to  honest  life. 
I  am  trying  to  find  out  :  for  God's  sake, 
help  me.' 

'  You  go  a  curious  way  to  get  my  help,' 
said  Montcalm  ;  '  a  curious  way — the 
wrong  way.  You  begin  by  doing  all  you 
can — such  as  it  is — to  hurt  me.  You 
thought  you  could  injure  me  at  the  meeting 
— perhaps  you  think  so  still.  If  so,  you 
can  do  your  worst.  I  shall  meet  you 
always  as  I  did  to-night.  Then  you  talk 
about  revenge.  Is  it  likely  that  I  should 
help  you  to  that,  against  my  own  brother, 
if  he  were  still  alive  .^  As  to  his  alleged 
marriage,  now  that  you  talk  like  a  reason- 
able being  I  will  answer  you.  No  word 
concerning  it  has  ever  reached  me  till  you 
spoke.  I  know  no  more  about  it  than  you 
do,  and  have  as  little  means  of  finding 
anything  out.  I  know  nothing  but  that 
my  brother  was  killed  in  America.  I  can 
give  you  no  help.' 

The  man  gave  a  groan,  the  groan  of  a 
baffled,  helpless  animal,  raging  in  impotent 
fury  and  suffering. 


VI  An  Election  Episode  89 

'  You  could  help  me  if  you  wished,'  he 
said  as  he  turned  to  go  ;  *  I  knew  that  you 
would  not.  It  is  like  your  cursed,  cursed 
race.  Our  time  is  coming — to  us,  as  to  the 
Frenchmen  a  hundred  years  ago.  They 
had  their  turn  ;  we  shall  have  ours.  It  is 
near,  near !  Without  you,  despite  you,  I 
shall  learn  the  truth.  My  Lizzie,  I  am 
certain,  died  an  honest  woman.  I  shall 
find  it  out.  I'll  prove  it.  You  do  not 
want  it  proved,  because  you  would  scorn 
her  for  a  kinswoman.  Your  pride  would  re- 
volt.    To  suit  you  she  must  remain  a ' 

By  this  time  Montcalm's  hand  was  on 
the  bell.     The  servant  speedily  appeared. 

'  Show  this  man  the  door/  he  said,  as  he 
bent  again  over  his  writing.  '  Remember 
that  I  have  some  letters  to  go  by  the  mid- 
night post.' 

Montcalm's  unwelcome  visitant  showed 
no  symptom  of  the  violence  which  his  first 
appearance  had  suggested.  He  had,  appar- 
ently, no  wish  to  stay.  Sobbing  and  de- 
claiming, he  followed  the  servant  down- 
stairs, and  went  out  into  the  street. 

Montcalm  was  once  more   alone.     He 


90  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


sat  on  far  into  the  night.  Silence  reigned  : 
the  noisy,  excited  world  around  him  was 
sunk  in  sleep.  He  sat  and  reviewed  the 
events  of  the  evening.  They  had  been  a 
tremendous  shock.  Jennings'  revelation 
had  brought  home  to  him  with  dreadful 
distinctness  the  conviction  that  there  were 
unfathomed  depths  into  which  his  brother 
might  have  plunged.  The  man's  story  had 
every  appearance  of  truth.  There  was  a 
clue.  Was  he  not,  Charles  Montcalm 
asked  himself,  bound  to  follow  it — to  help 
on  the  discovery- :  to  rescue  the  woman  if 
she  were  capable  of  restoration — to  atone 
if  atonement  were  still  possible }  He  would 
write  at  once  to  Mr.  Strutt — bid  him 
communicate  with  Jennings,  and  get  hold 
of  any  scrap  of  information  which  might 
help  to  the  desired  discovery.  But  was  it 
desired  .^  It  was  a  revolting  task  :  it  would 
drag  some  horror  to  life — some  dreadful, 
degraded,  aggrieved  woman,  who  would 
trade  on  her  wrong  and  Frank's  guilt, — 
some  wretched  child  of  sin  and  shame 
whose  birth  would  make  him  head  of  the 
Montcalms.     Horrible,  horrible  idea  ! 


VI  An  Election  Episode  91 

It  must  be  faced,  however  painful.  It 
could  be  borne.  But  one  thing  Montcalm 
could  not  face,  the  necessity  of  telling  his 
wife.  He  resented  the  thought  of  any  obli- 
gation to  let  another  person  into  the  secret 
of  his  father's  and  his  own  misfortune. 
He  would  never  have  married,  if  he  had 
had  to  reckon  with  this  horrible  necessity. 
He  would  never  have  exposed  his  pride  to 
the  risk  of  such  a  humiliation.  Life  would 
not  be  worth  having  if  he  were  obliged  to 
humble  himself  before  Sibylla  by  such  a 
revelation.  No  one — not  even  one's  wife — 
has  a  right  to  secrets  which  concern  oneself 
alone.  Why,  too,  need  Sibylla  share  the 
misery  which  he  was  now  enduring  ^  Why 
need  this  deplorable  episode  cast  its  shade 
over  the  brightness  of  her  life  ^ 

Charles  Montcalm  resolved  on  conceal- 
ment. 


CHAPTER   VII 


THE    LITTLE    RIFT 


RosENCRANTZ.  You  do  surcly  bar  the  door  upon 
your  own  liberty,  when  you  deny  your  griefs  to  a 
friend. 

The  reporters  who  despatched  a  telegraphic 
summary  of  the  meeting  for  the  next  morn- 
ing's London  papers,  made  no  reference  to 
the  concluding  episode  except  by  a  paren- 
thetical remark  that  there  had  been  con- 
siderable disturbance  on  the  part  of  a  gang 
of  roughs  ;  that  the  speakers  had  some 
difficulty  in  making  themselves  heard  ;  and 
that,  for  a  time,  it  seemed  likely  that  the 
meeting  would  break  up  in  confusion. 
Such  systematic  rowdyism  was,  the  Govern- 
ment organs  observed,  a  disgrace  to  a 
respectable  community,  and,  however  con- 
venient as  a  reply  to  Mr.  Montcalm's  un- 


CHAP.  VII  The  Little  Rift  93 

answerable  arguments,  could  not,  in  the 
long-run,  fail  to  react  unfavourably  against 
the  party  in  whose  interest  it  was  resorted 
to.  A  little  local  print,  however,  of  the 
extremest  Socialist  order,  was  less  reticent 
on  the  subject.  The  Anarchist  was  largely 
read  by  the  working  men  of  Belhaven,  and 
identified  itself  with  their  interests.  It 
took  up  Jennings'  supposed  wrongs  as  a 
congenial  topic — an  admirable  illustration 
of  the  vices  and  cruelties  of  the  upper 
classes.  An  accusation  had  impliedly  been 
made  :  it  had  not  been  denied.  It  was 
safe — it  was  reasonable  to  assume  the  worst. 
The  flavour  of  scandal  was  appetising. 
Local  gossip  added  zest  to  the  report.  It 
was  notorious,  the  Anarchist  observed,  that 
the  girl,  who  was  betrothed  to  Jennings, 
had  disappeared  from  her  home  in  a  manner 
which  her  family  recognised  as  disgraceful. 
The  name  of  Montcalm  had  been  popularly 
connected  with  her  flight  and  her  disgrace. 
There  were,  everybody  knew,  substantial 
grounds  for  such  a  popular  belief.  Mr. 
Montcalm  had  refused  publicly  to  throw 
any  light  on  a  painful  mystery.     What  was 


94  Sibylla  chap. 

the  obvious  inference  from  such  a  refusal  ? 
And  was  it  likely  that  a  community,  out- 
raged by  such  a  breach  of  morality,  would 
confide  its  political  interests  to  the  keeping 
of  a  candidate  who  came  before  them  under 
such  conditions  ?  The  days  were,  happily, 
past  when  the  excesses  of  each  petty  local 
despot  were  condoned  by  society  and  sub- 
mitted to  by  classes  too  wretched,  too 
degraded  to  know  the  barest  rights  of 
humanity.  Such  excesses  could  now  be 
regarded  only  as  survivals  from  the  cruel, 
feudal  times  when  nothing  was  sacred  from 
aristocratic  greed.  Mr.  Charles  Montcalm 
might  be  assured  that  the  English  demo- 
cracy would  tolerate  no  such  barbarous 
survivals.  The  people  would,  assuredly, 
reject  the  parliamentary  candidate  who 
sought  their  suffrages,  tainted  by  so  dis- 
honourable an  association. 

A  copy  of  the  Anarchist^  as  ill  luck 
would  have  it,  found  its  way  into  Lord 
Belmont's  letter-bag,  and  was  duly  opened, 
cut,  aired,  and  laid  out  for  perusal,  with  a 
host  of  others,  on  his  library  table.  Sibylla 
usually  devoted  the  hour  after  breakfast  to 


VII  The  Little  Rift  95 

reading  the  morning's  news  to  her  father. 
Her  eye  was  caught  by  an  unusual  name. 
She  began  the  article  and  came  suddenly 
upon  the  passage  which  dealt  with  the  topic 
of  the  interruption  before  she  was  aware  of 
its  import.  She  stopped  short  in  confusion, 
and  made  a  bold  skip  to  another  paragraph 
which  she  could  see  was  dealing  with 
another  subject.  Lord  Belmont  merely 
thought  that  she  had  lost  her  place.  He 
was  giving  no  special  heed  to  the  article, 
and  the  abrupt  break  in  Sibylla's  reading 
did  not  rouse  his  attention.  Afterwards, 
Sibylla  took  the  paper  to  her  room  and 
read  it  with  a  beating  heart.  She  was 
impressed  by  her  husband's  speech,  by  the 
coolness,  the  dignity,  the  courage  of  his 
reply.  She  loved  and  admired  him  for  it. 
The  tears  sprang  to  her  eyes  as  she  pictured 
him  to  herself,  standing  calm,  impressive, 
and  unfaltering  in  the  midst  of  the  huge 
concourse — many  of  them  his  bitter  foes, 
—  boldly  meeting  his  assailants  in  open 
fight.  He  was  a  husband  of  whom  any 
woman  might  be  proud.  But  there  was 
evidently   a   mystery.      Why   was   it   that 


g6  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


Frank  Montcalm's  name  was  never  men- 
tioned either  by  her  husband  or  her  father? 
Why  had  all  her  attempts  to  induce  either 
of  them  to  enlighten  her  on  the  subject 
been  met  with  decisive  refusal  ?  Why 
had  Charles's  letter,  written  immediately 
after  the  disturbance  at  the  meeting, 
made  no  reference  to  it?  W^hat  was  his 
connection  with  the  story  on  which  his 
interrogator  had  touched  ?  Why  this  sec- 
retiveness  ? 

Agitating  questions  for  an  affectionate 
wife  !  Try  as  she  would,  Sibylla  could  not 
put  them  from  her  thoughts.  The  first 
discovery  of  concealment  is  an  epoch  in 
married  life  :  it  is  a  shock  to  confidence. 
Sibylla  now  experienced  it. 

She  consoled  herself  with  the  reflection 
that  her  husband's  return  would  not  be 
much  longer  delayed.  The  election  would 
presently  be  over,  and  he  would,  doubtless, 
take  the  first  opportunity  of  talking  to  her 
openly  on  a  subject  which  must  have  been 
occupying  so  large  a  space  in  his  thoughts. 
It  was  not  difficult  to  imagine  reasons  why 
he  should  refrain  from  doing  so  by  letter, 


VII  The  Little  Rift  97 

and  prefer  to  postpone  a  painful  communi- 
cation till  he  could  make  it  in  personal 
intercourse. 

A  week  later  came  the  news  of  Mont- 
calm's election,  and,  two  days  afterwards, 
the  successful  candidate  himself  arrived  in 
Portman  Square.  Sibylla  was  conscious  of 
watching  for  the  hour  of  her  husband's 
arrival  with  strange  impatience,  a  new-born 
excitement.  Her  heart  beat  painfully  as 
she  watched  the  carriage  drive  up  which  was 
bringing  him  from  the  station.  She  ran 
downstairs  to  greet  him  in  the  hall.  He 
was  entering  as  she  descended. 

His  appearance  and  demeanour  im- 
pressed her — resolute,  self-confident,  self- 
contained — the  personification  of  strength, 
fortitude,  and  success.  No  trace  of  a  humi- 
liating contretemps  had  written  itself  on 
that  fine,  clear  brow.  Sibylla  watched  him 
coming  toward  her.  His  approach  chilled 
her,  even  in  the  midst  of  her  excitement. 
She  instinctively  shrank  from  any  demon- 
stration of  feeling.  She  dared  not  be 
effusive.  Charles  Montcalm,  she  was  cer- 
tain, would  of  all   things   dislike  a  scene. 

VOL.   I  H 


98  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


A  display  of  sentiment  —  with  footmen 
looking  on,  and  an  impassive  butler  silently 
observant  in  the  background  —  would  fill 
him  with  horror.  Sibylla,  however,  found 
it  difficult  to  restrain  her  feelings.  She  was 
more  moved  than  she  had  expected  to  be — 
than  the  occasion  justified.  The  tears  stood 
in  her  eyes.  It  had  been  their  first  separa- 
tion— a  short  one,  but  it  had  cost  her  some 
pangs.  It  was  a  relief  to  have  her  husband 
again.  She  took  his  arm  and  led  him  to 
the  library,  which  of  late  she  had  made 
her  principal  abode. 

They  were  alone.  Montcalm  took  her 
with  tenderness  in  his  arms  :  he  embraced 
her  with  a  real  devotion.  He  watched  her 
face  with  the  solicitude  of  love. 

'  Tears,  Sibylla  P '  he  said,  with  the  tone 
of  petting  a  child,  and  giving  her  another 
kiss. 

'  Foolish  tears,  I  know,'  said  Sibylla ; 
'  tears  of  joy.  I  am  thankful  that  our 
separation  is  over.  I  rejoice  to  have  you 
again,  Charles.  I  have  a  weak  horror  of 
separations.  Let  us  have  as  few  as 
possible.' 


VII 


The  Little  Rift  99 


'  I  say  Amen  to  that,'  said  her  husband. 
'  These  electioneering  expeditions  have  now 
a  new  ingredient  of  horror.  They  rob  me 
of  my  wife — the  worst  sort  of  robbery.' 

'  And  all  things  went  well  ? '  said  Sibylla. 

'  All  things  went  well,'  said  her  husband, 
resolutely  ;  '  the  majority  was  a  splendid 
one,  was  it  not  ?  It  is  perfectly  satisfactory; 
but  the  most  satisfactory  thing  about  the 
election  is  that  it  is  over.' 

'  How  you  dislike  it,'  said  his  wife.  '  It 
is  unfortunate.' 

'  It  is  all  detestable,'  said  Montcalm, 
'  detestable  and  degrading — but  inevitable, 
I  suppose.  One  sees  mankind  at  its  worst 
and  vulgarest — not  an  ennobling  sight.' 

'  And  contact  with  it,  in  this  phase,  is 
naturally  disagreeable  .^ '  said  Sibylla. 

'  Most  disagreeable,'  said  her  husband, 
emphatically  ;  '  so  disagreeable  that  it 
seems  a  profanation  to  mar  the  delight  of 
our  meeting  by  recalling  it.  Let  us  choose 
a  pleasanter  topic.  Tell  me,  how  is  your 
father  ? ' 

'  Thank  you,'  said  his  wife,  '  father  is 
as  well  as  possible,  and  in  the  best  spirits 


1 00  Sibylla  chap. 

about  the  election.  We  do  not  think  it 
profanation  to  talk  and  think  about  it 
when  we  are  toofether.  We  followed  the 
news  anxiously  from  day  to  day,  and  I  read 
father  all  the  speeches.  He  admires  yours 
so  much.  They  read  well.  I  wish  I  could 
hear  one.     Ah  !  here  he  comes  ! ' 

*  A  thousand  congratulations,  my  dear 
Charles,'  Lord  Belmont  said,  as  he  came 
forward  with  an  air  of  cordiality  which 
pronounced  him  to  be  in  the  highest 
spirits.  '  Your  victory  was  really  magni- 
ficent. In  these  days  one  can  never  tell 
how  matters  will  go.  We  were  getting 
thoroughly  nervous.  It  was  so  good  of 
you  to  order  us  so  ample  a  supply  of 
telegrams.  They  were  a  great  comfort. 
You  had  some  rough  meetings,  too,  I 
saw.' 

Sibylla  saw  her  husband  turn  pale  as 
Lord  Belmont  approached  the  unwelcome 
topic. 

'  The  Belhaven  suburbs  are  rough,' 
Montcalm  said  with  composure,  '  and  mass 
meetings  are  meant  to  be  noisy.  They  are 
a  bore,  but  not  the  worst  form  of  boredom 


VII 


The  Little  Rift  loi 


in  which  an  election  involves  one.      Thank 
heaven,  we  shall  now  have  a  respite  ! ' 

Later  in  the  afternoon,  Mrs.  Ormesby 
came  in  to  have  tea  with  Sibylla,  and  to 
offer  her  congratulations.  She  was  a  keen 
politician,  and  entered  heartily  into  the  en- 
joyment of  the  triumph. 

'  Charles  has  done  well,'  she  said,  '  and 
the  party  has  done  well.  What  a  comfort ! 
The  Government  will  be  as  strong  as  they 
need  to  be — strong  enough  for  all  practical 
purposes.  It  is  a  mistake  to  have  too  large 
a  majority.  The  rank  and  file  get  careless 
and  the  waverers  think  they  are  at  liberty 
to  indulge  their  own  fancies.  Talking  of 
waverers,  I  see  that  brilliant  young  gentle- 
man, Mr.  Amersham,  has  got  in  again. 
I  am  half  sorry  for  it,  though  he  is  a 
protege  of  mine.  I  discovered  him  and 
made  him  the  fashion.  But  politically  he 
is  dangerous — too  independent  and  fond 
of  airing  his  independence.  Our  people 
ought  to  catch  him.  He  should  be  turned 
to  good  account,  or  else  be  given  something 
or  other,  and  so  be  silenced  for  ever.  He 
is  too  good  to  leave  alone.' 


I02  Sibylla  chap. 

*  We  hardly  ever  see  him,'  said  Lord 
Belmont ;  '  he  is  a  difficult  person  to  catch. 
When  he  is  not  at  the  House  he  is  always 
too  much  engaged  for  such  quiet  people  as 
we  are  to  have  a  chance.' 

*  Oh,'  said  Mrs.  Ormesby,  '  he  is  in  im- 
mense request,  especially  among  the  women. 
He  is  a  flirt,  like  every  man  who  is  worth 
anything,  except  your  Charles,  Sibylla ;  and 
he  is  the  saintly  exception  that  proves  the 
rule.  Not  but  what  he,  probably,  has  a 
flirtation  on  hand  somewhere  or  other,  if 
we  only  knew  it.  But  Mr.  Amersham  is 
an  insatiable,  indefatigable  flirt.  He  adores 
every  charming  creature  he  comes  across. 
The  only  trouble  is  that  there  are  so  many 
of  them.  He  can  never  make  up  his  mind, 
any  more  than  they  can,  which  of  them  it 
is  that  he  adores  the  most.' 

*  The  worst  of  it  is,'  said  Lord  Belmont, 
*  that  his  butterfly  propensities  are  not 
confined  to  women.  That  might  be  for- 
given him.  But  he  is  a  political  flirt — he 
likes  a  new  opinion  almost  as  well  as  a  new 
love.  It  is  time  that  he  settled  down 
respectably.     As  it  is,  I  have  a  conviction 


VII  The  Little  Rift  103 

that  he  is  slipping  from  us  ;  we  shall  lose 
him.  It  will  be  a  blow  to  the  party,  and 
we  do  not  want  any  more  blows.  The 
Opposition  know  his  value.  They  are 
working  hard  to  catch  him.  All  sorts  of 
influences,  male  and  female,  are  being  rained 
upon  him — all  in  the  wrong  direction. 
Lady  Egeria  is  having  him  to  her  little 
dinners ;  and  Lady  Egeria's  little  dinners, 
to  a  young  politician,  mean  destruction. 
Something  must  be  done.  Sibylla,  you 
must  try  your  hand  upon  him.' 

'  I ! '  cried  Sibylla  ;  *  what  an  idea  !  I 
am  a  bad  hand  at  that  sort  of  work.  I 
scarcely  know  Mr.  Amersham  ;  and  if  I  did, 
it  would  be  no  easy  task  to  convince  or  to 
influence  him.  Besides,  Charles  disap- 
proves, I  believe,  of  female  propaganda.' 

'  And  who,  pray,'  said  Mrs.  Ormesby, 
'  are  to  be  the  propagandists  if  women 
decline  the  task  .^  What  are  women  for,  I 
should  like  to  know,  in  this  world  of  silly 
men,  each  craving  guidance  from  a  sensible 
woman .?  My  dear  Sibylla,  propagandism 
is  our  specialite.  To  disapprove  it  is  just 
one   of  Charles's    silly  fads.     He    has    so 


I04  Sibylla 


CHAP.    VII 


many.     The   kindest   thing    to    do    is   to 
ignore  them.' 

*  Ignore  one's  husband's  fads  ^.  '  cried 
Sibylla  with  a  laugh  that  was  not  without 
a  tinge  of  bitterness  ;  '  Aunt  Constance, 
what  a  prescription  for  matrimonial  bliss ! ' 

*  That,  my  dear,'  said  Mrs.  Ormesby,  *  is 
a  sort  of  bliss  that  has  quite  gone  out. 
Anyhow,  it  cannot  be  any  one's  duty  to 
encourage  a  husband  in  what  is  absurd  on 
the  face  of  it.  As  for  Mr.  Amersham,  ask 
him  to  dinner,  at  any  rate.  Let  your 
father  give  him  a  lecture,  and  you  give  him 
another.  See  how  you  get  on.  It  would 
be  a  real  achievement  to  secure  him.  And 
ask  us  the  same  night.  He  is  delightful, 
and,  what  is  most  delightful — devoted  to 
me,' 

'  There  can  be  no  harm  in  being  civil,  at 
any  rate,'  said  Lord  Belmont ;  *  Sibylla  is 
an  accomplished  controversialist.  She  must 
do  her  best.' 


CHAPTER   VIII 

THE    CAMPAIGN    OPENS 

Sir  Nathaniel.  I  praise  God  for  you,  Sir. 
Your  reasons  at  dinner  have  been  sharp  and  senten- 
tious, witty  without  affection,  audacious  without 
impudency,  learned  without  opinion,  and  strange 
without  heresy. — Love's  Labour* s  Lost. 

Lord  Belmont's  dinner-parties  were  of  the 
amusing,  interesting,  and  informal  order. 
His  tastes  were  catholic,  and  his  habit  of 
giving  oral  invitations,  which  were  apt  to 
slip  from  his  own  memory  or  his  intended 
guests',  produced  occasional  mishaps. 
These,  however,  signified  the  less  as  host 
and  guests  alike  were  bent  on  enjoyment, 
and  versed  in  the  arts  and  habits  which 
tend  to  produce  it.  Lord  Belmont's 
hospitable  instincts  shrank  from  the  contact 
of  a  bore. 


io6  Sibylla  chap. 

A  goodly  party  had  already  assem- 
bled in  the  drawing-room  when  Amer- 
sham  made  his  appearance.  As  he  glanced 
round  the  room  he  recognised  many 
familiar  faces.  Several  members,  from 
whom  he  had  just  parted  at  the  House, 
were  grouped  round  Lord  Belmont. 
Montague,  amongst  them,  was  standing 
next  to  his  uncle. 

'  Ah ! '  he  said,  as  Amersham,  after  a 
word  or  two  with  his  host,  passed  on  into 
the  crowd,  '  there  goes  the  rising  man, 
his  honours  thick  upon  him.  How 
good  he  was  last  night !  He  has  been 
speaking  better  and  better  all  the  session. 
Last  night  he  was  at  his  best  —  quite 
brilliant.' 

'  More  brilliant  than  useful,'  said  Lord 
Belmont ;  '  his  cleverness  is  alarming.  It 
sounds  a  dubious  note.  It  breathes  of 
treachery,  desertion.  He  is  making  up  his 
mind  as  to  which  side  he  means  to  join. 
Who  will  it  be?' 

'  That's  telling,'  said  Edenbridge,  a 
young  author,  whose  last  volume  of  essays 
had  established  his  reputation  for  cleverness 


VIII  The  Campaign  opens  107 

and  won  him  admission,  by  the  royal 
road,  to  membership  of  the  Athenaeum — 

'  ^vheLh7)v  ovK  av  <yvoL7)<;  iroTepoLdi  /jbereLi] — 

Tydides  does  not  quite  know  himself,' 
said  Montague.  *  Well,  whoever  gets  him 
will  gain  a  valuable  recruit.  He  knows  it, 
and  appreciates  the  position.  He  knows 
his  worth,  and  he  means  the  Government 
to  know  it.  That  was  what  his  speech 
meant.' 

'  I  am  not  so  sure  of  his  worth,  after  all,' 
said  Lord  Belmont.  'Is  he  merely  a 
brilliant  opportunist,  or  has  he  the  making 
of  a  statesman  ?     Time  will  show.' 

'  We  all  believe  in  him ! '  cried  Montague 
— '  all  his  college  friends.  That  is  in  his 
favour,  is  it  not  ?  We  are  confident  that  he 
will  succeed.' 

'  Confidence,'  said  his  uncle,  '  is  a  plant 
of  slow  growth  in  aged  breasts — mine 
among  others.  It  is  so  easy  to  dazzle 
one's  contemporaries.  But  theirs  is  not 
the  final  verdict.     We  shall  see.' 

On  the  opposite  side  of  the  drawing- 
room,    Mrs.    Ormesby,    the    splendour    of 


io8  Sibylla  chap. 

whose  attire  bespoke  her  intention  of  ending 
the  evening  in  a  gayer  scene,  was  listening 
with  a  somewhat  resigned  air  to  the  Bishop 
of  Blackfriars,  a  courtly  prelate,  an  old 
college  friend  of  Lord  Belmont,  and  now 
his  frequent  guest.  The  bishop  was  witty, 
learned,  and  agreeable,  but  Mrs.  Ormesby 
had  a  prejudice  against  bishops,  and  would 
have  been  glad  if  Amersham  had  come  to 
her  relief  Amersham,  however,  stayed  but 
just  long  enough  for  the  purposes  of  polite- 
ness, and  passed  on  to  greet  another  friend, 
who  was  encouraging  his  approach  with  a 
kindly  smile.  Lady  Holte  had  the  good 
sense  to  be  proud  of  her  uncle,  and  was 
always  delighted  to  come  to  his  parties. 
They  gave  her  an  agreeable  sense  of  respect- 
ability ;  they  flattered  her  vanity  at  a 
sensitive  point ;  they  consoled  her  for  the 
humiliations  which  her  mother's  caustic 
tongue  sometimes  inflicted.  Mrs.  Ormesby 
thought  slightingly  of  her  daughter,  and 
made  no  secret  of  ridiculing  her  pretensions 
to  being  taken  seriously.  But  Lady  Holte 
had  aspirations — aspirations  to  cultivated 
society,    rational   conversation,   and    clever 


VIII  The  Campaign  opens  109 

men.  She  had  a  disagreeable  consciousness 
of  falling  short  in  all  these  directions. 
Her  surroundings  were  sometimes  wanting 
in  good  taste,  and  the  mirth  of  her  drawing- 
room  was  apt  to  lapse  into  a  romp.  One 
of  the  people  most  conducive  to  the 
romping  sat  beside  her.  Miss  Everard  was 
one  of  the  great  successes  of  the  day. 
Her  beauty  and  her  cleverness  had  carried 
herself,  her  parents,  her  brothers  and  sisters 
to  the  dizzy  pinnacles  of  fame.  Everybody 
acknowledged  her  to  be  an  extraordinary 
girl, — extraordinary  even  among  the  extra- 
vagances of  modern  London  and  an  expiring 
century.  She  was  certainly  extraordinarily 
talkative,  and,  if  not  extraordinarily  clever, 
at  any  rate  clever  enough  to  make  her  talk 
pleasant  to  distinguished  men,  and  good- 
looking  enough  to  make  commonplace 
remarks  acquire  an  aroma  of  wit.  Kitty 
Everard  was,  moreover,  extraordinarily 
audacious.  She  stuck  at  nothing,  and 
frequently  acted  without  hesitation,  when 
discretion  would  have  bid  her  pause. 
Never  giving  herself  time  to  see  how 
things   would    look   from  other   points   of 


no  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


view  than  her  own,  she  occasionally 
shocked  decorum,  and  often  outraged 
taste.  But  she  was  very  fond  of  Lady 
Holte,  and  Lady  Holte  was  very  fond  of 
her,  and  was  not  easily  shocked. 

Both  ladies  greeted  Amersham  with 
effusion. 

'  How  late  you  are ! '  cried  Lady  Holte, 
'  unfortunately  it  is  the  dull  people  who  are 
always  punctual ;  we  arrived  to  the  minute.' 

*  A  brilliant  exception  to  the  rule,'  said 
Amersham. 

'  No  ! '  cried  Miss  Everard,  '  we  arrived 
dull,  and  have  been  growing  duller  ever 
since.  I  believe  the  half  hour  before  dinner 
is  the  most  exhausting  known  to  mortals. 
Why  don't  we  expunge  it } ' 

'  But  we  shall  be  all  right  now  that  you 
are  come,'  said  Lady  Holte,  gaily.  '  Sit 
down  here  and  tell  us  something  amusing.' 

'  Amusing  ! '  cried  Amersham.  *  What 
a  request  to  a  poor  overworked  drudge  ! 
We  come  to  you  to  be  amused, — you  happy 
beings  whose  only  business,  like  the  lilies, 
is  to  look  delightful.  Miss  Everard,  I  am 
positive,  never  does  a  stroke  of  work.' 


VIII 


The  Campaign  opens  1 1 1 


*  Never,'  said  the  young  lady  in  question, 
with  the  slightest  possible  frown,  as  she  saw 
Amersham  preparing  to  escape.  '  By  the 
way,  I  sometimes  knit  my  brows — like 
this.' 

'  And  wreathe  smiles  ^ '  said  Amersham  ; 
'  I  believe  that  is  the  proper  phrase,  though 
I  have  not  a  notion  how  it's  done  or  what 
it  means.  Something  pleasant,  at  any  rate, 
if  Miss  Everard  does  it.  I  should  like  to 
have  a  wreath  of  them  to  take  home  with 
me.' 

Lady  Holte  was  as  little  able  as  her 
mother  had  been  to  bring  Amersham' s 
onward  progress  to  a  halt.  He  had  caught 
sight  of  a  face  which  drew  him  across  the 
room. 

'  Lady  Cynthia ! '  he  exclaimed,  as  he 
joined  her;  '  what  a  delightful  surprise  !  I 
had  no  notion  that  you  were  in  town.' 

'  I  am  paying  Mrs.  Montcalm  a  visit,' 
the  other  answered.  '  My  mother  comes 
next  week.' 

'  That  means  that  she  is  better,  I  trust  ^ ' 
asked  her  companion,  with  an  air  of  the 
warmest  interest. 


1 1 2  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


'  Much  better,  thank  you/  Lady  Cynthia 
answered.  '  Mentone  was  a  great  success. 
But  we  are  glad  to  be  at  home  again.^ 

'  And  we  are  glad ! '  cried  Amersham 
with  fervour.  '  The  world  is  so  much 
pleasanter  when  you  are  here.  What  ages 
you  have  been  away  !  That  horrid  Riviera  ! 
we  owe  it  a  grudge.  It  empties  so  many 
drawing-rooms,  where  a  poor  shivering 
mortal  might  go  to  get  a  cup  of  tea  and 
a  little  timely  consolation.  It  blackens  a 
November  fog  to  think  of  the  sunshine  and 
the  mimosas  and  the  daffodils !  But  now 
you  are  back  ;  and  I  have  a  thousand  things 
to  tell  you  and  to  ask.  Let  me  sit  down 
by  you  here.  Ah  !  how  provoking  !  Here, 
I  am  certain,  is  Lord  Belmont  coming  to 
take  you  into  dinner !  But  we  must  have  a 
chat  afterwards.' 

Amersham's  devotion  was  amply  justi- 
fied. Lady  Cynthia  was  one  of  the  choice 
women,  whom  even  triflers  worship  seri- 
ously. Nature  had  fashioned  her,  mind  and 
body,  with  a  loving  solicitude,  into  a  rare 
perfection.  Three  years  before,  when  she 
first  made  her  appearance  in  society,  it  had 


VIII  The  Campaign  opens  113 

been  the  fashion  to  say  that  she  was  a 
living  Romney.  There  were  some  Romney 
touches,  certainly,  in  the  pose  of  the  head, 
the  long  delicate  neck,  the  faint  glow  which 
warmed  the  cheek.  Romney  would,  no 
doubt,  have  liked  to  paint  her.  Other 
admirers  in  search  of  a  concise  description 
were  wont  to  describe  her  as  reproducing, 
or  at  any  rate  recalling.  Sir  Joshua's  *  Saint 
Cecilia.' 

There  was  something  of  the  artist, 
something  of  the  saint  in  her  appearance, 
in  the  absolute  unstudiedness  of  attitude, 
in  her  abstracted  look,  which  gave  her  the 
air  of  scarcely  belonging  to  the  world  in 
which  she  moved.  When  she  raised  her 
beautiful  violet  eyes,  which  were  apt  to 
droop,  and  bent  their  full  radiance  on  her 
companion,  there  was  a  pathos  in  them 
which  seemed  to  claim  reverential  devotion. 
There  was  pathos,  too,  in  her  voice  and 
manner, — a  woman  who  might  easily  be 
hurt,  and  whom  to  hurt  would  be  a  mis- 
fortune or  a  crime. 

Amersham  had  admired  her  extremely 
from  the   first  day  of  their  acquaintance, 

VOL.   I  I 


114  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


and  had  spared  no  pains  to  let  her  feel  his 
admiration.  He  had  devoted  himself  to 
her  mother,  an  invalid  old  lady,  for  whose 
broken  health  and  failing  spirits  the  inter- 
ests and  pleasures  of  life  were  becoming 
too  heavy  a  burthen.  Amersham  behaved 
to  her  exactly  as  he  should,  with  deference, 
considerateness,  assiduous  care  to  save  her 
trouble  or  promote  her  comfort.  There 
was  no  trouble  that  he  was  not  overjoyed 
to  take  in  her  behalf.  Lady  Cynthia  felt 
grateful,  and  had  shown  her  gratitude  with 
unsuspicious  frankness.  The  two  had 
speedily  become  fast  friends.  His  presence 
cheered  ;  his  conversation — fresh  from  all 
the  turmoil  of  the  great  world  outside — 
was  a  relief,  an  amusement.  He  became 
a  welcome,  a  privileged  guest.  Lady 
Cynthia,  ministering  by  the  invalid's  sofa, 
seemed  to  him  a  half-sacred  being.  A  few 
words  from  her,  a  smile,  a  gracious  look  of 
thanks  were  enough  to  make  an  afternoon 
delightful.  Amersham,  whatever  his  short- 
comings, had  taste  enough  to  appreciate  his 
good  fortune,  and  to  know  that  the  society 
of  two  such  women   was  among  the  rare 


VIII  The  Campaign  opens  115 

privileges  of  life,  of  which  the  lucky 
possessor  can  never  make  enough. 

On  the  present  occasion  he  was  destined 
to  a  less  ethereal  companion. 

'  What  luck  for  me,'  Miss  Everard  said, 
as  presently  Amersham  led  her  downstairs  ; 
'  why  is  it  that  kind  fortune  sends  us  so 
seldom  into  dinner  together .?  I  hope  you 
are  in  a  charming  mood.' 

'  Most  charming,'  said  Amersham  ;  '  a 
man's  charm  is  merely  the  reflection  of  his 
neighbour's  ;  Miss  Everard's  neighbour  is 
bound  to  be  delightful.  But  I  have  robbed 
you  of  a  destined  honour  ;  you  were  to 
have  had  the  bishop.  Luckily  for  me 
some  one  failed  at  the  last  moment,  and  I 
was  promoted.' 

'  Imagine  !  '  said  Miss  Everard,  *  a 
bishop  !  and  I  such  a  wretched  theologian  ! 
My  weakest  point !  but  I  should  have 
made  him  tell  me  all  about  it.  It  is 
immensely  curious  and  interesting,  I  be- 
lieve, when  you  put  it  in  the  right  way.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Amersham,  '  the  way  that 
bishops  put  it.  That  is  what  bishops  are 
for.' 


ii6  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


'  But,'  said  Miss  Everard,  turning  a 
pair  of  eyes,  bright  with  fun,  full  upon  her 
neighbour,  '  I  would  rather  have  it  in  your 
way  —  your  nicest  way.  Imagine  me  a 
South  Sea  Islander,  and  yourself  a  mission- 
ary bent  on  my  conversion.  I  need  it,  I 
am  a  Pagan.  You  can  begin  in  the  Garden 
of  Eden ' 

*  In  Paradise,'  cried  Amersham,  '  where 
I  always  am  when  you  are  kind  to  me  and 
smile  like  that.  Well,  you  know,  in  the 
South  Sea  Islands  you  would  insist  on  my 
being  tattooed,  and  then  you  would  give 
me  a  kiss.     What  a  profane  idea ! ' 

'  So  many  pleasant  ideas  are,'  cried  Miss 
Everard,  '  but  we  have  become  a  little 
tropical.  The  South  Sea  Islands  are 
relaxing  ;  let  us  steer  for  cooler  latitudes. 
Mrs.  Montcalm  is  dying,  I  am  certain,  to 
know  what  news  you  bring  us  from  the 
House.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Sibylla,  who  was  Amersham's 
other  neighbour,  and  who  now  turned  at 
the  sound  of  her  name  from  Lord  Bourne, 
a  rising  Conservative  light,  who  had  taken 
her  into  dinner ;    '  Lord  Bourne   has  just 


VIII  The  Campaign  opens  117 

been  asking  me.  What  has  been  happening 
this  afternoon  ? ' 

'  The  usual  story,'  said  Amersham. 
*  Ministers  have  been  having  a  bad  quarter 
of  an  hour.  They  have  so  many.  They 
always  do  when  it  comes  to  a  hand-to-hand 
fight.  They  are  deficient  in  reply — very 
deficient.  The  art  of  really  effective  reply 
is  almost  a  lost  one.' 

'  The  first  condition  is,'  said  Lord 
Bourne,  '  that  an  effective  reply  should  be 
possible.  Nowadays,  so  often  it  is  not. 
In  that  case  the  nearest  approach  to  effect- 
iveness is  that  which  throws  most  dust  in 
your  opponent's  eyes  and  most  completely 
leads  the  public  off  the  scent.' 

'  Machiavellian,'  cried  Amersham,  '  but 
true !  As  some  great  conjuror,  who 
happened  not  to  be  a  politician,  used  to 
say,  the  secret  of  success  is  to  misdirect  the 
attention  of  the  spectators.  Well,  this 
afternoon's  trick  would  have  puzzled  any 
conjuror.  The  Government  had  not  a  leg 
to  stand  on.  They  had  no  case.  Egremont 
put  it  as  admirably  as  adroitness  could 
achieve ;    but    the    fact    remains   that    the 


Sibylla 


CHAP, 


appointment  was  a  job  of  the  purest  water  ; 
and  a  job  it  will  always  remain,  despite 
Egremont's  adroitness.' 

*  They  never  have  a  case/  said  Sibylla. 
*  Their  best  friends  feel  it  most.  My 
husband  was  saying  only  this  morning  that 
the  Session  has  been  a  series  of  disasters. 
They  are  fighting  in  the  last  ditch.' 

'  That  is  such  a  nice  place  to  fight  in,' 
cried  Amersham  ;  '  that  is  why,  just  now,  I 
am  a  Ministerialist.  It  is  so  dull  to  be  on 
the  winning  side  when  victory  is  easy  and 
one's  aid  superfluous.  I  like  to  march  in 
the  ranks  of  the  beaten  army,  fighting  a 
desperate  battle  or  making  a  desperate 
retreat.  Every  man  is  sure  of  doing  some- 
thing, being  of  some  use,  and  there  is,  at 
any  rate,  excitement.' 

'  But  you  figure  as  a  free  lance,  Mr. 
Amersham .? '  said  Sibylla.  '  I  read  your 
speech  this  morning  to  my  father.  He 
called  you  Mr.  Facing -Bothways.  The 
first  condition  of  serious  politics  is  to  choose 
your  party  and  stick  to  it.' 

'  Yes,  but  you  see,' said  Amersham, '  I  am 
so  excessively  conscientious,  and  so  candid. 


VIII  The  Campaign  opens  119 

I  often  cannot  make  up  my  mind.  I 
get  puzzled  :  sometimes  I  perfectly  under- 
stand a  subject  till  Harfleur  '  begins  to 
explain  it/ 

'  Naturally,'  said  Edenbridge  across  the 
table.  '  Explanations  are  a  tribute  to 
propriety.  You  must  have  them,  or  the 
thing  would  look  absurd.  But  they  are 
meant  to  puzzle.  The  function  of  a 
Minister  is  to  give  lucid  explanations  of 
what  he  does  not  understand  himself.' 

'  I  thoug;ht  that  was  the  prerogative  of 
the  theologians,'  said  Amersham. 

'  No,'  said  Edenbridge.  '  Theology 
formulates  the  inexplicable,  and  emphasises 
it.  The  very  point  of  it  is  that  most 
things  can  not  be  explained.' 

'  Yes,'  cried  Miss  Everard,  '  and  that  you 
give  creeds,  like  prisoners,  the  benefit  of  the 
doubt.' 

*  Well,'  said  Sibylla,  '  you  must  admit 
that  conscientiousness  is  sometimes  the 
pretext  of  indifference,  the  refuge  of  the 
coward.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Amersham,  '  I  accept  the 
impeachment !       Laziness    and    cowardice, 


1 20  Sihylh 


CHAP. 


two  great  motive  powers  of  the  world — my 
world,  at  any  rate.' 

'  Who  would  have  thought  it !  '  cried 
Sibylla.  *  I  had  fancied  that  your  foible  was 
a  restless  audacity.  What  do  you  say, 
Lord  Bourne } ' 

'  Oh,'  said  Lord  Bourne,  '  I  am  before 
everything  a  party  man.  I  am  not  a 
philosopher  like  Amersham,  and  do  not 
aspire  to  see  more  sides  than  one  of  a 
question — my  own  and  my  party's.' 

'  And,'  asked  Sibylla,  '  has  Mr.  Amer- 
sham no  opinions  of  his  own } ' 

'  None,'  said  Amersham  with  cheerful 
vehemence.  '  For  one  thing,  Mrs.  Mont- 
calm, I  am  too  young.  Young  people,  like 
poor  people,  cannot  afford  to  keep  opinions, 
any  more  than  they  can  carriages.  I  had 
one  or  two,  but  it  was  more  than  I  could 
manage  ;  I  had  to  retrench.  I  put  them 
down.  Nowadays  one  must  be  economical.' 

'  But  poor  people  are  excessively  opinion- 
ative,'  said  Sibylla. 

*  Only  the  reckless  ones,'  said  Amersham, 
'  who  will  presently  be  bankrupt,  and  who 
are   poor  enough   to   laugh  at   insolvency. 


VIII  The  Campaign  opens  121 

There  are  many  things  that  a  poor  man 
cannot  afford,  any  more  than  he  can  have  a 
place  in  the  country  or  a  diamond  necklace 
for  his  wife.  He  cannot  afford  to  make 
an  enemy.  Hatred  and  hatred's  outcome, — 
insolence,  sarcasm,  the  crushing  rejoinder, 
the  stinging  repartee, — are  luxuries  which  he 
must  leave  to  millionaires.  These  harmless 
pleasures  never  reach  the  poor.  Quarrelling 
is  a  most  costly  investment.     Revenge ' 

'  But  revenge,'  said  Miss  Everard,  '  is 
immoral — forbidden  by  religion.' 

'  Which  makes  it  all  the  more  expensive,' 
said  Amersham  ;  '  you  run  up  a  bill  in  both 
worlds.  But  the  grand  economy  is  to  have 
no  opinions  but  the  commonplace  ones  that 
everybody  has — which  are  so  much  public 
property  that  no  one  can  be  said  to  have 
them — like  the  grass  on  a  common  that 
geese  and  donkeys  graze  on.' 

'  What  a  comparison,' said  Miss  Everard ; 
'it  makes  one  more  resolved  than  ever 
not  to  be  common-fed  or  commonplace. 
Community  of  ideas  is  the  worst  form  of 
socialism.  Who  steals  my  purse,  steals 
dross — that  is  when    there  happens  to  be 


122  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


any  in  it  :   but  my  ideas  shall  be  sacredly 
my  own/ 

'  Your  own  and  your  country's  ! '  cried 
Amersham.  '  Miss  Everard's  ideas,  like 
Kepler's,  belong  to  the  universe — the 
penalty  of  genius! ' 

Afterwards,  over  coffee  and  cigarettes, 
the  event  of  the  afternoon  was  eagerly 
discussed  by  a  group  of  politicians. 

'  It  is  unfortunate,'  said  Addison,  a 
permanent  Under-Secretary  of  State,  who 
looked  upon  jobbery  as  the  natural  attribute 
of  all  Administrations — ^  so  conspicuous  and 
so  dreadfully  indefensible !  That  is  the 
worst  of  the  Duke's  jobs.  They  are  as  bad 
as  they  look,  which  is  saying  a  great  deal 
for  their  badness.  Egremont  does  not  care 
for  the  disgrace  of  having  to  defend  this  one. 
The  Duke  is  furious,  naturally  ;  but 
Egremont  could  not  be  expected  to  risk  a 
defeat  for  the  sake  of  providing  one  of 
the  Duke's  proteges  with  a  comfortable 
berth.' 

*  The  Duke's  protege  ! '  cried  Amersham. 
'  He  would  not  matter.  It  is  the  Duchess. 
This  job   is   one   of  hers.     They   have    a 


VIII 


The  Campaign  opens  123 


family   likeness.     I  know    her  touch,    her 
consummate  touch.     It  is  genius.' 

'  Hereditary  genius ! '  said  Edenbridge  ; 
'  her  ancestors  have  been  at  it  ever  since 
the  first  family  job  in  the  days  of  the 
Tudors.' 

'  The  secret  of  greatness  ! '  Amersham 
cried,  '  the  necessities  of  a  Minister  or  the 
foibles  of  a  king.  That  is  how  to  make 
blue  blood.' 

^  Anyhow,'  said  Edenbridge, '  the  Duch- 
ess is  ineffable.  She  realises  one's  ideal 
of  human  greatness.  She  dominates 
society,  she  dazzles  the  fashionable  mob, 
she  wire-pulls  the  Cabinet,  she  rules  from 
pole  to  pole,  from  Mayfair  to  Lombard 
Street.  Her  parties  are  the  finest  in  Lon- 
don, and  her  jobs — the  jobs  she  gets  other 
people  to  perpetrate  for  her — the  worst. 
When  I  see  her  rolling  by,  gorgeous, 
triumphant,  the  centre  of  a  hundred 
successful  intrigues,  the  cynosure  of  a 
hundred  grateful  recipients  of  favours, 
promised  or  received,  I  can  think  only  of 
the  mother  of  the  gods.  She  is  the 
modern  Cybele — 


124  Si  by  lie 


CHAP. 


Laeta  Deum  partu,  centum  complexa  nepotes, 
Omncs  ceelicolas,  omnes  supera  alta  tenentes  !  ' 

'  How  nice  for  the  nephews ! '  cried 
Amersham.  '  I  wish  I  was  one  of  them. 
But  they  play  the  deuce  with  a  department. 
We  have  too  many  of  them  at  the  Pumps 
and  Fountains  already.' 

Of  all  social  strategy  none  calls  for 
nicer  generalship  than  the  invasion  of  the 
drawing-room  after  dinner.  A  dexterous 
movement  and  timely  daring  secure  victory 
in  the  shape  of  a  delightful  companion  for 
the  most  agreeable  half-hour  of  existence. 
The  man  who  hesitates  is  lost  ;  so  is  the 
man  who  blunders.  Amersham  never 
hesitated  or  blundered.  Fortune  always 
placed  him  where  he  wished  to  be.  He 
had  now  caught  Sibylla  in  a  disengaged 
moment.  He  seemed  anxious  to  renew 
their  talk. 

'  I  am  afraid,'  he  said,  *  that  I  sank  in 
your  good  opinion  by  what  I  said  at 
dinner.' 

'  You  must  remember,'  said  Sibylla, 
'  that  I  am  a  professional  propagandist.  I 
have  a  special  mission  to  convert  you.     I 


VIII  The  Campaign  opens  125 

would  do  anything  to  win  a  vote  for  our 
side — my  husband's  side — a  vote  or  an 
ally.  I  am  bound  to  denounce  indiffer- 
entism ' 

'  And  to  call  it  by  all  the  ugliest  names 
you  can  think  of — idleness  and  cowardice, 
for  instance  ? ' 

'  Yes,'  said  Sibylla.  '  It  does  not  do  to 
be  indifferent.  This  is  no  world  for 
indifferentism.  It  is  only  cowards  and 
idlers  who  are  indifferent ' 

'  And  philosophers,'  said  Amersham. 
'  There  was  some  philosopher  or  other — 
Hegel,  I  believe — who  calmly  finished  his 
treatise  on  logic  the  day  that  the  battle  of 
Jena  was  being  fought  a  mile  or  two  away. 
That  always  struck  me  as  highly  philo- 
sophical.' 

'  The  philosophy  of  a  pedant ! '  cried 
Sibylla,  with  scorn ;  '  you  might  as  well 
quote  the  Paris  entomologist  who  collected 
butterflies  all  through  the  Reign  of  Terror.' 

'  How  wise !  how  truly  great !  '  cried 
Amersham,  '  and  saved  his  neck,  and  was 
safe  and  sound,  butterflies  and  all,  when 
the  storm  was  over !     No  doubt  he  made  a 


126  Sibylla  chap. 

splendid  collection.  I  hope  that  he  christ- 
ened some  lovely  creature  or  other  after 
the  guillotine !  It  is  a  good  hint  for  our 
behaviour,  when  our  Reign  of  Terror  comes. 
It  is  coming,  the  prophets  tell  us.' 

'  When  it  comes,'  Sibylla  said,  with 
seriousness,  *  Englishmen  will  meet  it  as 
becomes  them,  with  gravity  and  courage 
and  good  sense.  I  confess  I  feel  but  a 
cool  admiration  for  the  fine  French  ladies 
and  gentlemen  who  set  so  much  prize  on 
maintaining  their  exquisite  behaviour  to 
the  last.     It  was  too  theatrical.' 

'  Theatrical,  but  heroic,'  said  Amersham. 
*  There  was  philosophy  in  it  too,  was  there 
not }  ' 

'  But  what  a  philosophy,'  said  Sibylla, 
'  too  fine  for  real  life,  a  Dresden  china 
style  of  hoops  and  periwigs  !  It  wanted 
seriousness.' 

'  But  one  cannot  take  politics  seriously,' 
said  her  companion  ;  '  one  has  seen  too 
much  of  them.  They  are  the  best  inven- 
tion for  wasting  time  that  the  world  has 
ever  seen.' 

*  Because  you  are  all  so  weak  in  letting 


VIII  The  Campaign  opens  127 

it  be  wasted,'  said  Sibylla  ;  '  it  is  deplorable. 
If  you  were  in  earnest  you  would  contrive 
some  plan  or  other  to  prevent  the  wanton 
waste  of  time.' 

'  Heaven  and  earth  fight  in  vain  against 
a  bore,'  said  Amersham.  '  The  remark  is 
Schiller's,  I  believe.  Whosesoever  it  is,  at 
any  rate,  it  is  true.  If  a  man  does  not 
mind  being  a  bore  he  is  like  the  assassin  who 
does  not  intend  to  escape.  Nothing  can 
stop  him,  not  even  the  Speaker  with  his 
mace  and  his  direful  threats.  Never  mind 
what  the  question  is,  the  bores  have  it.' 

'  I  see,'  said  Sibylla,  '  that  you  are  a  long 
way  from  conversion.  You  are  not  even 
penitent.     Do  you  never  talk  seriously  }  ' 

'  I  am  serious  now,'  said  Amersham. 
'  In  my  creed,  then,  there  are  serious  things 
in  life,  but  politics  are  not  among  them.' 

'  I  consider  them  extremely  serious,'  said 
Sibylla.  '  Do  you  think  that  it  signifies 
nothing  how  the  country  is  governed — 
whether  that  Reign  of  Terror  you  men- 
tioned just  now  is  to  come  or  not  ^ ' 

'  Now,'  said  Mrs.  Ormesby,  rustling 
across    the     room  —  portly,     comfortable. 


128  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


radiant  in  satin  and  diamonds — and  taking 
the  place  which  Amersham  vacated  for  her 
on  the  sofa,  '  I  am  not  going  to  have  Mr. 
Amersham  monopolised.  You  had  him 
at  dinner,  Sibylla.  It  is  my  turn  now.  I 
need  amusement.  I  have  had  a  frightflilly 
dull  evening.  The  Bishop  and  I  are 
mutually  depressing.  Has  she  converted 
you,  Mr.  Amersham  ?  It  was  a  plot,  you 
know,  a  political  conspiracy.  They  want 
to  catch  you.  You  cannot  say  I  did  not 
put  you  on  your  guard.' 

*  Mrs.  Montcalm  has  done  that  already,' 
said  Amersham,  settling  himself  comfort- 
ably in  an  arm-chair  in  front  of  the  two 
ladies  ;  '  I  was  forewarned  ;  but  I  am  con- 
verted, all  the  same  ;  or  rather  I  do  not 
need  conversion.  Mrs.  Montcalm  and  I 
agree.' 

'  No,  indeed,'  said  Sibylla  ;  '  we  have 
not  even  found  the  point  of  possible  agree- 
ment.' 

'  Yes,'  said  the  other,  '  we  both  believe 
in  seriousness  ;  only  my  standard  is  higher 
than  yours,  and  I  will  not  admit  politics  to 
the  category  of  serious  things.     How  can 


VIII  The  Campaign  opens  129 

one  ?  that  is  the  worst  of  it.  Everything 
pohtical  is  so  common,  vulgar,  ignoble — 
especially  motives.  Each  man  wears  them 
on  his  sleeve,  the  ugliest  form  of  sleeve- 
ornament  ever  devised,  but  still  fashion- 
able.' 

'  I  like  his  pessimism,'  said  Mrs. 
Ormesby,  gleefully  ;  '  do  not  you,  Sibylla  ^ 
It  is  a  sign  of  youth  and  health  and  con- 
scious success.  It  is  like  Lord  Bourne, 
who,  as  he  has  a  hundred  thousand  a  year, 
a  charming  wife,  several  delightful  places, 
and  the  pleasantest  house  in  London,  is 
naturally  in  low  spirits.  I  commiserated 
him  sincerely,  as  you  may  imagine.  But 
as  for  politics  now,  I  agree  with  Mr. 
Amersham.  They  are  too  degrading. 
The  only  thing  is  to  take  them  as  a  joke — 
a  dull  joke — that  sorry  pleasantry,  repre- 
sentative government,  as  Dizzy  said  in  his 
nice  way.  What  is  good  statesmanship, 
pray,  but  a  shrewd  guess  which  way  the 
cat,  the  democratic  cat,  intends  to  jump.^ 
And  what  a  jumper  she  is  ! ' 

*  The  democratic  cat ! '  cried  Amersham  ; 
*  she  is  mistress  of  the  situation  !     That  was 

VOL.    I  K 


130  Sibylla 


CHAP.    VIII 


the  sort  the  Egyptians  worshipped,  no 
doubt.  How  different  from  the  purring, 
fireside  tabbies  of  our  maiden  aunts ! 
Nowadays  you  must  have  an  instinct 
which  way  the  breeze  intends  to  blow :  we 
all  become  weather-prophets.  Do  you  re- 
member Lord  Shaftesbury  in  Hudibras.^ — 

As  old  sinners  have  all  points 

O'  the  compass  in  their  bones  and  joints — 

Can  by  their  pangs  and  aches  find 

All  turns  and  changes  of  the  wind  ; 

So  guilty  sinners  in  a  State 

Can  by  their  crimes  prognosticate, 

And  in  their  consciences  feel  pain 

Some  days  before  a  shower  of  rain.' 

*  Some  days  before  the  deluge ! '  cried 
Mrs.  Ormesby,  '  I  feel  some  nasty  twinges 
of  my  own.     The  storm  is  near.' 


CHAPTER    IX 

COUNSELS    OF    THE     NIGHT 

Proteus.     Yet  writers  say,  as  in  the  sweetest  bud 
The  eating  canker  dwells,  so  eating  love 
Inhabits  in  the  finest  wits  of  all. 

'  Well,'  said  Lord  Belmont,  when  the 
last  guest  had  departed,  and  Sibylla  and 
Lady  Cynthia  had  sunk  into  easy  chairs  in 
attitudes  of  well-earned  repose  after  the 
fatigues  of  the  evening,  '  and  what  are 
you  doing  to-night.  Lady  Cynthia.^  Is 
Sibylla  to  take  you  to  a  ball :  ' 

'  No,'  said  Lady  Cynthia,  '  we  have  con- 
secrated this  evening  to  rest,  friendship,  and 
talk.  You  must  stay  and  help  us.  Lord 
Belmont.' 

'Charles  will  be  late  to-night,'  said 
Sibylla  :      '  he    may    have    to    speak.       In 


132  Sibylla  chap. 

any  case  he  cannot  get  away  in  time  to 
join  us.  So  we  determined  to  stay  at 
home  ;  Cynthia  and  I  have  a  world  of 
things  to  say  to  each  other.' 

'  And  what  did  you  make  of  your 
neophyte,  Sibylla } '  her  father  asked  :  '  he 
wants  a  great  deal  of  converting,  does  he 
not }     But  you  got  on  well } ' 

*  Splendidly,'  said  Sibylla  ;  '  I  found  him 
delightfully  light  in  hand — original,  a  nice 
sort  of  originality,  which  is  what  one  does 
not  always  get.  As  for  his  conversion,  I 
am  not  sure  that  he  needs  it.' 

*  But  that  looks  as  if  he  were  converting 
you,'  said  Lord  Belmont  ;  *  that  would  be 
a  fiasco.  Take  care,  Sibylla !  Conversion 
is  a  game  that  two  can  play  at.  You  may 
catch  a  Tartar  and  be  made  a  prisoner 
yourself  while  you  are  endeavouring  to 
make  one.' 

'  No,'  said  Sibylla,  '  he  will  not  convert 
me,  and  for  the  best  of  reasons.  He  is 
wandering  in  chaos.  He  has  not  yet  dis- 
covered a  creed.     He  wants  to  find  one.' 

*  But  those  are  the  most  dangerous  of 
proselytisers,'  said  her  father ;  *  the  preachers 


IX  Counsels  of  the  Night  133 

who  are  not  certain  what  doctrine  they  wish 
to  preach.' 

'  Ah,  but  Mr.  Amersham  has  a  creed  ! ' 
said  Lady  Cynthia,  '  the  creed  of  the 
poHtical  agnostic  —  the  Agnostic  with  a 
large  A.     Nothing  can  be  known.' 

*  Something  can  be  known  about 
politics,'  said  Lord  Belmont, — '  known  or 
shrewdly  guessed.  I  have  no  patience 
with  hoverers.  A  man  should  make  up 
his  mind  and  choose  his  side.' 

'  But  that  is  so  commonplace,'  said 
Sibylla,  '  and  Mr.  Amersham's  foible  is 
originality.  The  thing  that  everybody 
does  is,  on  the  face  of  it,  to  be  abhorred.' 

*  Ah,'  said  her  father  ;  '  well,  I  suppose 
Amersham  has  a  real  touch  of  originality. 
That  is  what  makes  him  so  impressive.' 

*  Impressive  ^ '  said  Sibylla,  '  I  cannot 
say  that  I  am  impressed ;  or  rather,  perhaps, 
I  was  impressed,  but  not  altogether  agree- 
ably. He  is  clever,  brilliant,  but  a  sort 
of  brilliancy  which  fatigues  one  and  de- 
presses— the  brilliancy  of  the  marble  which 
takes  a  good  polish  because  it  is  so  hard. 
I  dislike  cynicism — the  good-natured  cyni- 


134  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


cism  of  agreeable  members  of  society  most 
of  all.  It  is  such  an  old  story  and  such  a 
dull  one.  But  he  is  extremely  good- 
looking.' 

A  little  later  when  the  two  ladies  had 
passed  to  that  stage  of  deshabille  which  is 
supposed  to  be  essential  to  the  most  con- 
fidential utterances  of  female  souls,  Sibylla, 
flitting  ghost-like  through  dimly-lighted 
passages  to  her  friend's  room,  came  to  say 
good-night,  and  to  take  a  final  sip  of 
affectionate  gossip.  She  now  spoke  more 
openly  of  the  effect  which  Amersham  had 
produced  upon  her. 

*  So  you  thought  him  a  cynic  ^ '  said 
Lady  Cynthia ;  *  no  wonder  he  shocked  you. 
I  know  him  too  well  to  be  shocked.' 

'  Have  you  known  him  for  long } ' 
asked  Sibylla. 

'  For  ages,'  said  her  companion  ;  '  we 
are  very  old  friends.  He  was  a  bright, 
particular  star  of  my  first  Season.  It  was 
the  fashion  to  rave  about  him.  We  all 
did  it.' 

'  And  you  were  all  right,'  said  Sibylla. 
*  Bright   particular  stars   do  not   shine  for 


IX  Counsels  of  the  Night  135 

nothing.  It  was  something  better  than 
fashion.  The  fact  is  that  he  is  charming. 
I  could  do  a  little  raving  myself 

'  Do,'  said  her  companion.  '  I  shall 
like  to  hear  it  ;  my  raving  days  are 
over.' 

'  He  interested  me,'  Sibylla  continued  ; 
'  he  is  so  uncommon.  What  a  relief  that 
sort  of  man  is  !  It  makes  one  realise  what 
a  fatigue  the  other  sort — the  wrong,  the 
usual  sort,  can  be  ! ' 

'  They  can  be  very  fatiguing  when  they 
try,'  said  her  companion,  *  especially  when 
they  try  to  be  agreeable.  I  had  a  weary 
time  with  Lord  Hunstanton.  I  am  afraid 
I  was  rude  to  him.' 

'  Let  us  forget  him,'  said  Sibylla, '  him 
and  all  the  other  bores.  I  want  to  talk 
about  the  other,  the  nice  one,  who  is 
not  a  bore.  You  see  I  was  impressed 
after  all.' 

'  So  I  perceive,'  said  Lady  Cynthia. 
'  It  is  natural  that  you  should  be.  He  im- 
presses everybody  at  first.' 

'  And  then  } '  asked  Sibylla  ;  ^  is  he  not 
nice  at  heart  ? ' 


136  Sibylla  chap. 

*  That  begs  the  question/  said  the  other  ; 
'  is  it  certain  that  he  has  one  ?  No  one  is 
perfect.  Mr.  Amersham  would  be  too 
perfect  for  a  fallen  world  if  his  heart  were 
all  right,  and  there  were  enough  of  it.' 

'  I  should  not  have  guessed  him  to  be 
heartless/  answered  Sibylla. 

'  I  daresay  that  you  are  right/  Lady 
Cynthia  said  with  a  fatigued  air  ;  '  my  idea 
is  not  worth  discussion.  But,  as  you  said 
to  Lord  Belmont,  his  brilliancy  rather 
chills  one.' 

^  But  when  he  is  serious } '  asked  Sibylla. 

'  When ! '  said  Lady  Cynthia  ;  '  but  it  is 
so  seldom.  He  is  a  butterfly  and  flitters 
from  flower  to  flower  in  the  sunshine  of 
society  ;  or  rather,  perhaps,  the  busy  bee, 
improving  each  shining  hour  and  tasting 
all  the  sweets  of  life.  A  pleasant  exist- 
ence, no  doubt  ;  but  these  bees  and  butter- 
flies have  their  limitations.  People  call 
him  unscrupulous.  I  do  not  do  that ; 
but  his  scruples  are  not  those  of  ordinary 
folk.  Anyhow  he  is  agreeable  ;  and  agree- 
ableness  is  nine,  if  not  ten,  points  of  the 
law.' 


IX  Counsels  of  the  Night  137 

The  conversation  passed  to  other  topics, 
and  presently  Sibylla  rose  to  go. 

Lady  Cynthia  sat  pondering  when  her 
friend  had  left  her.  Her  reverie  was  long, 
and  not  exhilarating.  She  rose  with  a  sigh. 
Her  heart  was  aching.  She  had  been  talk- 
ing coldly,  bitterly,  with  a  superficial  sar- 
casm, which  was  merely  Nature's  trick  of 
concealment.  She  had  done  it  so  often, 
that  it  was  easy.  After  all,  and  despite  of 
all,  she  loved  him.  Perhaps  it  was  her 
doom.  Anyhow,  as  matters  stood,  it  was 
her  misfortune. 

Amersham,  this  evening,  had  behaved 
as  on  so  many  previous  occasions, — had 
greeted  her  with  great  cordiality,  had  ex- 
changed a  few  sentences,  which  implied  an 
intimate — almost  a  confidential  relation- 
ship ;  had  promised  to  renew  their  talk. 
A  careless  promise  !  lightly  made,  as  lightly 
put  aside  !  In  the  shifting  of  the  cards,  he 
had  found  himself  on  Sibylla's  sofa  and 
there  had  been  content  to  stay  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening.  In  the  sudden  interest  of 
a  new  acquaintance,  he  had  forgotten  to 
rejoin  Lady  Cynthia — though  they  had  not 


138  Sibylla  chap. 

met  for  months  ;  had  wished  her  good-night 
with  a  sentence  or  two,  which  took  in- 
timacy for  granted, — evidently,  with  no 
consciousness  that  there  had  been  any 
shortcoming  in  his  behaviour,  or  suspicion 
that  she  could  feel  neglected  or  aggrieved. 
He  was  right,  of  course.  He  gave  her 
what  he  gave  all  his  friends  —  all  that 
friendship  could  claim, — kindness,  courtesy, 
amusement.  But  how  vain  are  such 
offerings,  how  tasteless,  how  dispiriting  to 
her  who  gives  something  more  and  craves 
for  something  more  in  return !  It  was  an 
old  story.  For  long  she  had  been  harden- 
ing her  heart  to  bear  the  pang,  to  conceal 
it,  to  smile  while  she  suffered.  It  would 
become  less  acute  by  use — in  time.  But, 
meanwhile,  how  dull,  disappointing,  un- 
satisfying an  affair  existence  seemed ! 
Human  intercourse — what  but  a  tedious 
game  of  cross-purposes !  the  pleasures  of 
life  how  tasteless !  Life  itself — how  little 
worth  the  toils,  the  sufferings,  the  heart-aches 
it  costs  us  !  It  was  sad,  sad  !  Lady  Cynthia 
tried  in  vain  to  sleep.  It  was  easier,  now 
that  detection  was   impossible,  to  let   the 


IX  Counsels  of  the  Night  139 

tears,  long  held  back  by  resolute  will,  flow 
as  Nature  bade  them.  One  need  have  no 
secrets  with  one's  pillow  ;  there  was  no 
longer  any  need  for  self-restraint.  Lady 
Cynthia's  tears  flowed,  silently  and  long, 
through  the  still  hours  of  the  night. 


CHAPTER   X 


DAY     DREAMS 


Toute  passion   profonde   a  sa   pudeur,  et  porte 
un  voile  qu'elle  ne  leve  jamais  devant  les  profanes. 

Sibylla,  as  next  day  she  recalled  the  events 
of  the  previous  evening,  was  fain  to  ac- 
knowledge that  Amersham  had  interested 
her  more  seriously  than  she  had  had  at  first 
supposed.  His  looks,  his  gestures,  his 
expressions  kept  recurring  to  her  thoughts. 
He  had  aroused  her  curiosity.  He  was 
unusual.  But  what  was  he .?  Not  certainly 
the  mere  audacious  trifler  that  he  was 
pleased  to  depict  himself. 

The  careless  cynicism  which  he  affected 
was  obviously  a  mask  ;  but  what  was  there 
behind  it  ?  What  were  his  real  feelings  ? 
What  was  his  real  character  ^  And  why  was 
it  that  Sibylla  felt  a  sudden  wish  to  know  ? 


CHAP.  X  T)ay  'Dreams  141 

Greatly  as  she  disapproved  of  many  of  his 
views,  Sibylla  was  conscious  of  a  charm, 
and  asked  herself  its  secret.  There  was 
something,  perhaps,  in  a  strong  personality, 
impressing  his  will  on  those  whom  he  cared 
to  dominate.  Something,  too,  of  a  mag- 
netic power  in  his  physique,  —  a  well- 
chiselled,  nervous  mouth,  grave,  pathetic 
eyes,  a  fine,  open  brow,  mobile  features, 
across  which  each  fresh  shade  of  feeling 
wrote  itself  in  striking  character — a  manner 
inscrutable,  but,  to  her  who  could  read  the 
mystery,  bespeaking  sincere  homage,  the 
true  courtesy  of  soul.  That  homage 
Sibylla  had  recognised  as  proffered  to  herself, 
the  homage  that  is  engendered  of  sympathy, 
and  claims  to  be  sympathetic, — that  craves 
for  the  fuller  interchange  of  thought,  that 
only  awaits  permission  to  be  outspoken. 
Amersham  had  encountered  a  nature  capable 
of  influencing  him,  and  wished  to  be  influ- 
enced. He  was  accustomed  to  dominate 
his  surroundings,  but  he  had  no  thought  of 
dominating  Sibylla.  He  felt  a  sudden,  in- 
stinctive hope  that  she  would  dominate 
him,  would  care  enough  about  him  to  be  a 


142  Sibylla  chap. 

force  in  moulding  his  opinions,  in  guiding 
his  acts.  When  Sibylla  had  laughingly 
proclaimed  that  it  was  her  business  to  con- 
vert him,  she  unconsciously  touched  the 
very  string  that  was  vibrating  in  his  nature. 
He  was  already  a  disciple  on  the  road  to 
conversion.  Sibylla  had  experienced  some- 
thing which  in  his  most  adoring  moods  her 
husband  had  never  given  her — the  delightful 
consciousness  of  influence.  No  woman 
could  have  influenced  Montcalm's  politics. 
He  would  have  resented  the  attempt  to  do 
so.  It  was  a  highly  pleasurable  sensation 
to  Sibylla  to  find  a  politician,  who  wel- 
comed her  into  his  sphere,  and  seemed  to 
appeal  to  her  to  assist  in  the  process  of 
arriving  at  a  conclusion.  She  felt  a 
dawning  consciousness  that  her  acquaint- 
ance with  Amersham  would  ripen  into 
friendship. 

There  was  another  thing  which  made 
Amersham  interesting.  An  idea  had 
dawned  upon  Sibylla — vague,  baseless,  im- 
probable— but  which,  none  the  less,  refused 
to  be  ignored.  Lady  Cynthia's  way  of 
talking  about  Amersham,  when  they  dis- 


X  T>ay  'Dreams  143 

cussed  him  in  midnight  session,  had  sur- 
prised her.  It  was  harsh,  cynical,  altogether 
unlike  herself.  Was  there  an  explanation } 
They  had  been  intimate,  evidently.  What 
had  their  intimacy  meant }  To  what 
hopes,  wishes,  disappointments,  might  it 
not  have  given  rise.^  Amersham,  it  was 
certain,  had  admired  her,  and  he  was  not  a 
man  whom,  when  he  was  bent  on  pleasing, 
it  would  be  easy  to  resist.  His  advance 
would  be  bold,  rapid,  not  to  be  denied. 

What  had  he  been — what,  Sibylla  asked 
herself,  was  he — what  might  he  be  to  Lady 
Cynthia  .^  She  had  often  in  past  times  in- 
dulged in  those  vague  questionings  of  the 
future  which,  it  may  be  surmised,  fill  some 
space  in  most  women's  thoughts  about  each 
other.  One  of  the  things  that  we  wish  for 
delightfial  friends  is  to  see  them  happily 
married.  Sibylla  had  frequently  revolved 
in  her  mind  the  question  of  Lady  Cynthia's 
marriage.  She  would  marry,  surely.  She 
had  every  charm  which  dominates  the  heart 
of  man.  She  was  born  for  love.  Who 
was  the  fortunate  mortal  to  whom  this 
choice  prize  was  destined  to  fall }     Interest- 


144  Sibylla  chap. 

ing,  exciting  speculation !  It  was  im- 
possible, even  for  a  woman,  to  think  about 
Lady  Cynthia  without  interest  and  anxiety. 
She  was  so  rare,  so  choice,  so  unlike  and  so 
much  above  the  common  crowd.  She 
fascinated  her  friends.  Many  men,  it  was 
certain,  would  worship ;  but  it  would 
require  the  courage  of  conscious  merit  to 
claim  this  delightful  being  for  one's  own 
particular  adoration.  Few  would  dare,  and 
those  few  might  have  reason  to  regret  their 
temerity.  Sibylla  had,  in  mental  survey, 
satisfied  herself  that  there  was  no  one  in  the 
circle  of  her  own  acquaintance  to  whom 
that  achievement  was  attainable.  Lady 
Cynthia  was  exquisite,  critical,  fastidious. 
She  was  an  ardent  friend  ;  on  the  other 
hand,  not  too  easy  to  please.  Her  aversions 
were  prompt,  hearty,  and  sincere.  Her 
judgment  was  nice,  and  did  not  always  err 
on  the  side  of  indulgence.  Her  standard 
of  taste  was  high.  She  felt  a  genuine 
contempt  for  many  of  the  foibles  of  man- 
kind ;  she  possessed  the  dangerous  faculty 
of  expressing  her  contempt  in  speeches, 
whose  irony  was  the  more  cutting  for  being 


X  T^ay  Dreams  145 

unconscious.  She  kept  the  world  at  a 
distance.  She  had  some  pronounced 
enemies.  She  was  not  an  easy  person 
for  whom,  even  in  imagination,  to  find  a 
fitting  husband. 

The  idea  now  dawned  on  Sibylla  that 
Amersham  was,  of  all  the  men  whom 
London  Society  had  hitherto  revealed  to 
her,  the  one  whose  disqualifications  for  the 
post  of  aspirant  to  Lady  Cynthia's  hand 
were  least  conspicuous.  He  was  clever 
enough  to  cope  with  her  wit.  He  was 
romantic  enough  for  her  most  soaring  mood. 
His  cynicism  would  touch  a  kindred  point 
in  her  melancholy.  He  had  a  vein  of  feel- 
ing which  would  appeal  to  hers.  Could  it 
be  that  he  was  the  destined  man } 

The  more  Sibylla  played  in  thought 
with  this  pleasing  project,  the  more  she 
liked  it — liked  it  for  both  parties  concerned. 
She  had  for  years  past  been  feeling  an 
affectionate  anxiety  for  Lady  Cynthia's 
happiness.  She  was  conscious  now  of  liking 
Amersham  sufficiently  well  to  be  interested 
in  his  future,  to  indulge  in  projects  for  him 
— projects    of    success.        Lady     Cynthia, 

VOL.   I  L 


146  Sibylla  chap,  x 

Sibylla  had  now  convinced  herself,  was  the 
very  woman  to  make  such  success  achiev- 
able. She  would,  of  course,  be  a  delightful 
companion — a  choice  ornament  of  existence. 
But  she  would  be  more  than  that.  She 
would  not  only  adorn  her  husband's  life, 
but  ennoble  it.  She  would  be  an  antidote 
against  a  thousand  baleful  influences  which 
beset  the  youthful  politician,  the  brilliant 
member  of  society.  Such  influences, 
Sibylla  knew^  were  actively  at  work  around 
Amersham.  They  threatened  his  soul's 
health.  They  exposed  him  to  dreadful 
risks, — risks  of  failure,  of  deterioration.  She 
felt  a  longing  to  save  him.  Such  a  man  was 
worth  saving.  It  would  be  a  real  achieve- 
ment so  to  fortify  him  against  the  seductions 
of  a  world  where  dangers  abound  and  the 
strongest  and  best  are  liable  to  fall. 

So  ran  Sibylla's  dreams  for  her  two 
friends.  Would  this  piece  of  good  fortune 
befall  them  }  What  had  destiny  decreed } 
Was  this  a  case  in  which  the  light  touch 
of  a  dexterous,  friendly  hand  might,  in  ever 
so  slight  a  degree,  aid  destiny  in  accom- 
plishing its  decrees } 


CHAPTER   XI 

five-o'clock  tea 

From  women's  eyes  this  doctrine  I  derive  ; 
They  sparkle  still  the  right  Promethean  fire  : 
They  are  the  books,  the  arts,  the  academes. 
That  show,  contain,  and  nourish  all  the  world  : 
Else  none  at  all  in  aught  proves  excellent. 

Many  women  failed  to  understand  Amer- 
sham  ;  but  all  considered  him  delightful. 
A  portion  of  his  delightfulness  was,  it 
may  be  conjectured,  due  to  an  impress- 
ible nature,  quickly -varying  mood,  and 
eloquently  tell-tale  looks.  His  features 
in  repose  suggested  power,  seriousness, 
a  pathetic,  almost  a  tragic  melancholy. 
Then,  as  he  spoke,  the  melancholy  was 
dissipated  by  the  gayest,  sweetest  smile. 
The  dark,  unfathomable  eyes  sparkled  with 
mirth,   or   melted   with   tenderness.      The 


148  Sibylla  chap. 

woman  who  witnessed  this  agreeable  meta- 
morphosis took  credit  for  having  produced 
it,  and  was  charmed  with  him  and  with 
herself.  No  one  could  be  more  agreeably- 
confidential.  Each  favoured  woman  had 
her  especial  confidence,  and  believed,  in 
spite  of  appearances  to  the  contrary,  that 
she  was  the  one  with  whom  Amersham 
found  entire  communion  of  sentiment,  the 
one  person  who  thoroughly  understood  her, 
and  by  whom  he  was  fully  understood. 
His  natural  versatility  rendered  this  compre- 
hensive sympathy  an  easy  task,  involving 
neither  effort  nor  hypocrisy.  His  courtesy 
was  deep  ingrained.  A  chivalrous  homage 
for  women  was  his  natural  mood  ;  the 
particular  woman  whom,  for  the  moment, 
he  admired,  found  an  ample  supply  of  that 
homage  at  her  command.  He  would  say 
anything,  he  would  do  anything  for  the 
delightful  being  whose  ascendency  he 
avowed.  Be  the  cause  what  it  might, 
Amersham  was  the  centre  of  much  social 
interest,  the  moving  spirit  of  a  clever 
clique,  who  found  in  him  their  true 
raison  d'etre  and    their  most  redoubtable 


XI  Five-o'clock  Tea  149 

champion.  He  had  begun  public  Yi^q, 
fresh  from  college  honours,  as  a  great 
Minister's  private  secretary.  His  academic 
companions  had  prophesied  a  brilliant 
career.  Amersham  had  lost  no  time  in 
making  their  prophecies  come  truer  than 
such  prophecies  generally  prove.  He  took 
to  politics  as  to  a  natural  element.  His 
first  public  speech  —  trenchant,  audacious, 
amusing — showed  the  true  oratorical  touch. 
Such  gems  are  not  allowed  to  blush  unseen 
in  the  ocean  solitudes  of  modern  politics. 
Discriminating  wire-pullers  discerned  the 
coming  man.  He  was  soon  provided  with 
a  seat.  Taking  the  tide  of  fortune  at  the 
turn,  he  had  carried  society  and  Parliament 
by  storm,  and  established  his  position  as 
the  rising  politician  of  the  day  —  risen, 
indeed,  and,  though  still  not  far  from  the 
horizon,  bound  for  the  zenith.  Good 
judges  admitted  him — after  one  or  two 
successes — to  the  select  list  of  impressive 
speakers  —  fluent,  ready,  resourceful  — 
capable,  at  the  right  moment,  of  real  elo- 
quence. Where  do  some  favoured  mortals 
learn — as    by   instinct — this   precious   art, 


150  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


which  others — well  qualified,  one  might 
have  thought — court  sedulously  and  vainly 
for  a  life-time  ?  Amersham,  at  any  rate, 
possessed  it.  His  method  was  audacious, 
but  he  justified  his  audacity.  Old  parlia- 
mentary onlookers  held  their  breath  when 
this  modern  David  came  cheerfully  out, 
with  sling  and  smooth  stones  from  the 
brook,  and  essayed  battle  with  Goliaths, 
tall  in  stature  and  formidable  with  the 
prestige  of  a  hundred  victories.  But 
David's  smooth  stones  were  aimed  with 
no  faltering  hand,  and  the  Goliaths  grew 
uneasy  when  he  invited  them  to  single 
combat.  Naturally  he  defied  convention. 
Why  should  such  men  be  conventional } 
They  lead  the  way  in  thought  and  be- 
haviour. Amersham's  line  in  the  House 
showed  an  independence  which  baffled  the 
calculations  of  the  managers  of  rival  parties. 
While  he  was  posing  as  a  Tory,  he  could 
calmly  propound  doctrines  at  which 
staunch  Radicals  winced,  as  revolutionary. 
His  was,  he  explained  gravely,  the  modern, 
the  progressive,  the  democratic  Conserva- 
tism, the  most   truly  Conservative  of  all. 


XI  Five-o'clock  Tea  151 

Then,  when  Radicals  had  begun  to  deem 
him  their  own,  the  reaction  came  and  the 
budding  Revolutionist  talked  about  change, 
as  Lord  Eldon  would  have  wished  to  talk. 
Amersham  was  never  heard  to  greater 
advantage  than  when  he  was  dashing  the 
hopes  of  silly  enthusiasts,  or  exposing  the 
fallacies  of  a  too  sanguine  reformer.  The 
improvement  of  humanity,  he  pointed  out, 
was  not  a  topic  about  which  wise  men 
could  be  either  hopeful,  confident  or 
enthusiastic.  Its  natural  tendency  was  to 
deteriorate.  The  attempt  to  check  a 
natural  tendency  might  easily  inten- 
sify it. 

Such  a  speaker  naturally  excited  the 
hopes  and  fears  of  either  side.  He  need 
not  be  despaired  of :  on  the  other  hand,  he 
could  not  be  relied  on,  except  to  essay  ever 
newer  and  bolder  flights  into  the  realm  of 
the  unexpected. 

*  I  hope,'  Amersham  had  said,  as  he 
wished  Mrs.  Montcalm  good  -  bye,  the 
night  of  Lord  Belmont's  dinner,  '  that  I 
may  come  some  day  and  complete  my 
conversion.       You    must    give    me    some 


152  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


more  good  advice.  You  know  how  much 
I  need  it.' 

*  I  will  give  you  some  tea,  at  anyrate,' 
said  Sibylla,  *  any  evening  after  six.' 

'  Tempting  offer !  '  cried  Amersham. 
*  It  is  the  hour  for  conversions.  I  shall 
certainly  come.' 

Sibylla  was  conscious  of  hoping  that  he 
would  do  so.  She  felt  that  he  would  be 
more  discoverable,  more  manageable  when 
she  had  him  tete-a-tete.  In  society  he  was 
practically  unapproachable,  safeguarded  by 
a  rampart  of  bantering  wordliness.  His 
talk  at  her  father's  dinner  and  afterwards 
had  been  obviously,  almost  ostentatiously, 
superficial.  Was  his  manner  a  blind  to  his 
real  feelings  and  character.?  As  he  chose 
to  show  himself,  no  one  could  seem  less 
amenable  to  management  or  conviction. 
How  to  convince  a  man  who  protests  that 
he  has  no  convictions,  whose  nearest  ap- 
proach to  principle  is  political  expediency, 
whose  deepest  feeling  lurks  beneath  a  sneer .? 
The  undertaking  seemed  unpromising. 
Sibylla's  spirit  of  enterprise  was  piqued 
by    the    difficulty    of    her    task  —  by    the 


XI  Five-o'clock  Tea  153 

opposition  with  which  she  felt  that  her 
approaches  would  be  met.  When  she  had 
him  to  herself,  she  would  have  a  better 
chance  of  seeing  the  real  man,  and  so  be 
one  step  on  the  road  towards  influencing 
him.  She  felt  an  increasing  desire  to 
exercise  this  influence. 

She  was  pleased,  therefore,  when,  a  few 
evenings  later,  Amersham  was  announced, 
especially  pleased  that  she  happened,  at  the 
moment,  to  have  no  other  visitor.  The 
sort  of  talk  she  wanted  would  not  admit  of 
an  uncongenial  third — of  any  third.  It 
was  to  be  interesting,  serious,  perhaps 
confidential.  Sibylla  was  not  accustomed 
to  fail  in  her  social  enterprises.  She  now 
meant  business. 

But  if  Sibylla  meant  business,  Amersham 
meant  pleasure,  and  speedily  made  his 
hostess  aware  of  his  intention.  He  had 
come  to  tea  with  her  as  the  pleasantest 
thing  at  the  moment  within  his  reach.  He 
was  in  an  idle  mood — in  the  best  possible 
spirits.  He  had  been  all  the  morning 
at  a  dull  Committee.  An  afternoon 
sitting  was  dragging  its  dreary  length  along 


i^^  Sibylla  chap. 

— the  very  personification  of  profitless 
bewilderment.  He  was  exulting  in  the 
sense  of  escape.  The  whips  would  be 
angry  ;  in  fact  he  had  just  escaped  from 
one  who  was  extremely  angry.  Amersham 
had  received  notice  that  he  might  be  wanted 
to  speak.  '  On  the  Serbonian  Bog  Reclama- 
tion Scheme ! '  he  cried,  as  he  described  the 
scene  to  Mrs.  Montcalm,  '  if  the  member  in 
charge  happened  not  to  be  at  hand,  and  none 
of  the  other  leaders  were  inclined  to  speak  ! 
And  when  I  had  a  chance  of  having  tea 
with  you !  A  man  who  could  bear  that 
would  be  a  slave,  and  deserve  his  fate. 
The  great  thing  in  political  life,'  he  went 
on,  '  is  not  to  be  submerged,  or  rather, 
though  you  are  submerged — for  we  are  all 
that — to  get  your  head  now  and  then  above 
water.  One  must  come  up  sometimes  out 
of  the  mud  to  breathe  and  look  about  one. 
The  effect  of  party  government  is  to  keep 
every  one  but  the  leaders  deep  in  the  mud, 
and  repress  every  effort  to  escape  suffocation 
as  disloyalty.' 

'  But    you    do    not    look    in    the    least 
suffocated,'     said    Sibylla,     *  or    likely    to 


XI 


Five-o'clock  Tea  155 


become  so.  And  the  Serbonian  Bog  Project 
is  a  tremendous  affair.  The  Government 
are  to  stand  or  fall  by  it,  are  they  not  ? 
Mr.  Egremont  will  be  displeased.  How 
did  you  dare  to  come  away  .^  My  husband 
would  not.' 

*  Ah  ! '  said  Amersham  ;  '  but  then  he 
has  convictions  and  a  character  to  lose, 
which  I  have  not — and  do  not  wish  to  have, 
if  it  would  prevent  my  coming  to  tea  with 
you  whenever  you  will  let  me.' 

'  But  my  business  is  to  help  you  to  earn 
a  character,'  said  Sibylla,  '  a  character  for 
political  consistency  on  the  right  side — on 
our  side — not  to  abet  you  in  playing  truant, 
as  you  are  to-day.  I  believe  I  ought  to 
send  you  off  to  the  House  forthwith.' 

'  Be  merciful,'  said  Amersham.  *  The 
first  principle  of  education  is  indulgence  at 
the  outset.  Indulge  me  to-day.  I  will  do 
better  next  time.  But  you  have  no  concep- 
tion, Mrs.  Montcalm,  what  a  bore  it  all  is. 
But  for  a  little  occasional  rebellion  one 
would  perish  of  ennui — a  bad  way  of  dying, 
is  it  not  ?  ' 

'  A  bad  way  ! '  cried  Sibylla,  with  some 


156  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


impatience  in  her  tone — '  a  dull  way ! 
What  have  men  like  you  to  do  with  ennui  ? 
You,  who  have  ambition,  opportunity, 
success  achieved,  the  prospect  of  success  to 
come — everything  that  makes  life  interest- 
ing?' 

'  Yes,  but,'  answered  Amersham,  '  is  one 
sure  that  it  is  interesting — even  with  all 
these  good  things  thrown  in  ?  That  is  the 
horrid  doubt/ 

'  Who  can  seriously  doubt  it  ? '  cried 
Sibylla.     '  It  is  only  too  interesting.' 

*  There  have  been  several  great  author- 
ities for  the  contrary  opinion,'  rejoined  her 
companion  ;  '  from  Job  downwards.  Even 
the  great  Achilles  had  to  confess  to  Priam 
that  existence  was  a  misfortune,  and  con- 
queror and  conquered  alike  the  victims  of 
their  doom — the  doom  of  unhappiness. 
The  futility  of  existence  was  one  of  man's 
earliest  discoveries.  Each  generation  has 
made  the  discovery  afresh.' 

'  No,'  cried  Sibylla,  *  each  generation 
has  found  profounder  interests,  a  higher 
purpose,  a  sublimer  hope.  As  for  Achilles 
and    his    melancholy,    he    was — what    no 


XI  Frje-o' clock  Tea  157 

reasonable  being  should  be — in  the  sulks. 
But  you  talk  like  a  heathen,  or  that  bad 
order  of  heathen,  a  Frenchman  of  the 
decadence.     What  do  you  believe  in :  ' 

'  In  the  best  of  all  possible  worlds,'  said 
her  companion,  '  so  long  as  Mrs.  Montcalm 
is  its  champion.  By  the  bye,  I  was  at 
Oxford  the  other  day,  and  saw  in  the 
Sheldonian  Theatre  the  oldest  writing 
known  to  man  —  some  indefinitely  pre- 
historical  old  Egyptian  king  or  other, 
several  dynasties  before  the  flood — our 
flood,  you  know.  It  is  a  lament  over  his 
dead  son,  and  its  burthen  is  the  complaint 
that  the  world  has  grown  dreadfully  old, 
that  mankind  is  in  its  dotage,  and  the 
sorrows  and  pleasures  of  existence  alike  a 
passing  phantasm.  So  it  is  an  old  storv — 
old  and  bad.' 

'  The  worse  it  is,  the  more  need  for 
good  people  to  mend  it,'  said  Sibylla. 

'  That  is  what  we  coming  politicians  try 
to  do,'  said  her  companion  gailv. 

'  And  what  is  your  programme — vours 
and  your  set's .-  ' 

*  Our  programme  ?     Wilkes'  programme 


158  Sibylla  chap. 

for  the  young  M.P.  —  "Be  as  merry 
as  you  can,  as  independent  as  you  can, 
and  say  the  first  thing  that  comes  upper- 
most." It  is  an  excellent  recipe.  I  have 
tried  it.  No  one  can  guess  what  line  we 
shall  take.  That  is  what  makes  us  so 
interesting.' 

*  And  your  theory  of  life } '  asked  Sibylla, 
*  of  the  world }  ' 

'  A  hotel — a  bad  hotel,  crowded,  bust- 
ling, expensive.  If  you  pay  handsomely, 
and  make  sufficient  fuss,  and  insist  perempt- 
orily on  good  attendance,  you  will  fare 
moderately  well.  You  get  your  dinner  and 
make  the  best  of  it.  In  a  few  hours  you 
pay  your  bill,  inscribe  your  name  in  the 
guest  book,  and  are  gone.  Your  rooms 
are  already  filled  with  the  next  traveller's 
luggage ! ' 

'  What  a  simile  ! '  cried  Sibylla.  *  A 
tourist's  simile,  a  Cook's  Tourist's.  Sup- 
pose, by  way  of  a  change,  you  were  to 
begin  to  talk  rationally  }  I  will  bring  you 
to  book.  People  say  that  you  are  a  butter- 
fly, and  take  friendship  as  lightly  as 
everything  else.' 


XI  Five-o'clock  Tea  159 

*  The  friendships  of  society/  said  the 
other,  '  cannot  be  taken  too  lightly.  They 
are  delightful  :  they  solace  the  tedium  of 
life  :  they  give  it  zest,  excitement,  some- 
times a  touch  of  romance.  But  they  are 
essentially  fugitive.  They  bind  us  to 
nothing — to  constancy  least  of  all.' 

'  What  a  horrible  way  to  talk,'  cried 
Sibylla,  '  even  in  joke.  For  my  part, 
inconstancy  in  friendship  is  the  unforgiv- 
able sin.' 

'  Why  call  it  inconstancy  ^ '  asked 
Amersham.  '  Circumstances  decree  that 
certain  people  are  to  meet  in  certain 
drawing-rooms,  at  certain  balls,  in  a  series 
of  country  houses,  every  day  for  a  few 
weeks  or  months.  Two  of  them  find  each 
other  out — blissful  discovery — as  congenial 
companions.  They  are  never  bored  with 
each  other — never  at  a  loss  for  talk  ;  they 
set  each  other's  tongues  loose,  and  each 
other's  ideas — they  sharpen  each  other's 
wits.  A  half-hour,  otherwise  the  acme  of 
tedium,  flies  briskly  away.  They  naturally 
haunt  each  other.  Human  nature  struggles 
against    boredom.     They    are    pledged    to 


1 60  Sibylla  chap. 

nothing  ;  they  mean  nothing  except  to  be 
amused.  Nothing  is  more  amusing  than 
variety.  Then  idiotic  Society  denounces 
the  woman  as  a  flirt,  and  the  man  as  a 
trifler.     How  monstrously  unjust ! ' 

'  Unjust  if  you  please/  said  Sibylla ; 
'  but  is  there  not  a  risk  sometimes  of  treat- 
ing real  friendships  in  this  cavalier  fashion, 
and  so  being  guilty  of  a  sort  of  sacrilege  .^ 
We  have  to  ask  our  hearts.' 

'  I  should  not  like  to  ask  my  heart  any 
such  home-questions,'  said  the  other,  gaily  : 
'  they  might  be  embarrassing  !  But  no  ;  I 
have  a  clear  conscience.  I  am  the  most 
faithful  of  friends.  Let  me  become  your 
friend  and  prove  it.' 

'  You  talk,'  said  Sibylla,  '  as  if  friend- 
ship were  an  affair  of  will — a  boon  to  be 
conferred.  It  has  to  grow,  surely,  apart 
from,  sometimes  in  spite  of,  anything  we 
will.  But  it  is  nice  that  you  should  wish 
ours  to  grow.     I  hope  that  it  will.' 

The  Serbonian  Bog  Reclamation  Project 
was,  as  Sibylla  said,  a  tremendous  affair — 
the  biggest,  fiercest,  most  inveterate  of 
modern  controversies.     By  this  time  it  lay 


XI  Five-o'clock  Tea  i6i 

buried  under  a  superincumbent  mass  of 
blue-books,  debates,  commissions,  and  en- 
quiries, before  which  the  average  diligence 
of  humanity  shrank  abashed.  The  only- 
thing  known  for  certain  about  it  was  that 
it  was  practically  inexhaustible.  Many 
reputations  had  been  lost  in  it ;  several 
Governments  had  come  to  grief  in  abortive 
schemes  of  improvement.  More  than  one 
great  Minister  had  had  reason  to  regret  the 
day  when  he  admitted  it  to  a  place  in  his 
programme.  Great  Ministers,  however, 
cannot  afford  to  pick  and  choose.  The 
Serbonians,  a  quick-witted  race,  appreciated 
the  advantages  of  their  position  and  turned 
them  to  the  best  account.  Amersham*s 
speech  in  the  last  Serbonian  Bog  Debate 
had  not  been  as  serious  as  the  occasion 
demanded.  He  supported  the  Bill  indeed, 
but  his  support  was  of  the  flimsiest  order. 
Several  passages  in  his  speech  conveyed  to 
Ministerial  breasts  the  horrid  suspicion  that 
they  were  being  chaffed.  Its  indifference 
was  ostentatious,  almost  insolent.  The 
speech,  none  the  less,  was  a  success.  A 
crowd  of  charming  women  heard  it  with 

VOL.   I  M 


1 62  Sibylla  chap,  xi 

admiration  behind  the  grille.  It  was 
gossiped  about  that  evening  in  a  hundred 
drawing-rooms  as  the  one  amusing  incident 
of  a  portentously  dull  debate.  Amersham 
was  congratulated  on  his  adroitness  in  com- 
mitting himself  to  nothing  beyond  the 
general  principle  of  the  desirability  of 
draining  bogs.  Naturally  enough,  he  pre- 
ferred drinking  tea  with  Mrs.  Montcalm 
to  the  wearisome  processes  of  a  committee, 
whose  final  goal  had  not  come  within  the 
scope  of  political  vision. 


CHAPTER   XII 

A    CASE    OF     CONSCIENCE 

This  something-settled  matter  in  his  heart, 
Whereon  his  brains  still  beating,  puts  him  thus 
From  fashion  of  himself. 

While  Sibylla  was  experiencing  the  interest 
and  excitement  of  a  new  intimacy,  her 
husband's  thoughts  were  less  agreeably 
occupied. 

Ignore  it  as  he  might  in  his  communica- 
tions with  his  wife,  belittle  it  as  he  tried  to 
do  in  his  own  private  reflections,  Charles 
Montcalm  found  that  Jennings'  story  was 
likely  to  become  a  dominant  factor  in  his 
life.  The  topic  which  it  suggested,  once 
admitted,  presently  became  disagreeably 
self-assertive.  It  obtruded  itself  with 
obstinate,  persistent  recurrence.  It  mono- 
polised attention.     Till  now  the  one  thing 


1 64  Sibylla  chap. 

that  Charles  Montcalm  had  known  about 
his  brother,  since  his  flight  from  England, 
had  been  the  fact  of  his  violent  death  at  the 
Eldorado  Mine.  There  had  seemed  an  end 
of  him.  No  clue  to  his  previous  life  in 
America  presented  itself.  There  was 
nothing  more  to  do  or  say,  nothing  but 
silence,  and,  if  possible,  oblivion.  Now 
for  the  first  time  there  had  come  a  hint  of 
something  more.  There  was  a  starting- 
point  for  enquiry.  Jennings'  story  that 
Frank  Montcalm  had  landed  in  New 
York  in  company  with  a  woman,  whom  he 
had  subsequently  married,  if  it  could  be 
substantiated,  gave  a  hint,  a  vague  hint 
indeed,  but  still  enough  to  serve  as  nucleus 
for  more  solid  information.  It  rested  on 
rumour.  What  obligation,  Charles  asked 
himself,  does  such  a  rumour  impose.^  It 
was,  after  all,  nothing  but  bare  conjecture. 
Is  an  honourable  man  bound  to  act  on 
conjectures.^  Is  he,  as  a  rational  being, 
with  duties  and  responsibilities  in  other 
directions,  justified  in  so  acting .?  Mr. 
Strutt,  with  whom  Montcalm  discussed  the 
subject    at   length,   was   vehement    against 


XII 


A  Case  of  Conscience  165 


any  action  being  taken.  Great  expenditure 
had,  he  said,  been  already  incurred  in 
remedying  —  in  obliterating  the  conse- 
quences of  Frank's  misbehaviour.  That 
expenditure  had  been,  in  one  sense,  wasted. 
Nothing  had  come  of  it.  Why  throw 
good  money  after  bad.^  Why  waste  any 
more  .^  It  was  mere  romance,  the  solicitor 
urged,  and  Mr.  Montcalm  was  not  rich 
enough  to  be  romantic.  There  was  a 
limit  to  everything.  He  had  more  than 
reached  that  limit  when  he  honoured  his 
brother's  forged  bill.  Old  Mr.  Montcalm 
had  shown  his  deliberate  intention  by  his 
will.  He  had  destroyed  it,  as  they  both 
knew,  only  because  he  believed  it  to  be  un- 
necessary. He  had  died  before  his  ill-con- 
sidered act  could  be  repaired.  Why  should 
Charles  start  an  enquiry,  which  his  father 
had  not  considered  necessary — which  was 
certain  to  be  costly — which  would  probably 
be  abortive,  and  which,  if  not  abortive,  could 
produce  nothing  but  disaster.  This,  if 
ever  there  was  one,  was  a  case  in  which  it 
was  well  to  leave  well  alone,  and  to  let  sleep- 
ing dogs  lie.     Why  stir  a  dirty  business  ^ 


1 66  Sibylla  chap. 

'  Because,'  said  Charles,  '  my  brother 
may  be  at  the  bottom  of  it — my  brother, 
or  those  whose  interests,  for  his  sake,  my 
father's,  and  my  own,  I  am  bound  to 
protect.' 

'  The  matter  is  dead,'  persisted  Mr. 
Strutt.  '  It  will  not  come  to  life  unless 
you  revive  it.  Surely  no  rule  of  conscience 
obliges  you  to  do  so  ? ' 

'  Well,'  said  Montcalm,  '  my  conscience 
does  oblige  me,  and  that  settles  the 
question.  It  is  a  matter  of  duty.  No 
misconduct  on  my  brother's  part  could 
relieve  me  of  it.  If  Frank  married,  as 
this  man  asserts,  there  may  be  those  who 
have  rights  under  my  father's  will.  If 
there  was  a  son,  that  son  is  entitled  to  the 
estate.  It  would  be  robbery  on  my  part  to 
keep  him  out  of  it ;  it  is  robbery,  just  as 
much,  not  to  help  him  to  his  rights.  I 
will  never  be  guilty  of  it.  Who  can  say 
how  my  father  would  have  acted,  had  he 
known  of  such  a  son's  existence,  or  sus- 
pected it }  The  last  thing  that  he  ever  said 
to  me  was,  that  if  Frank  had  come  back 
and  asked  for  forgiveness,  he  would  have 


XII  A  Case  of  Coitscience  167 

forgiven  him.  In  fact  he  did  forgive  him. 
Surely  it  is  clear  that,  as  my  father's 
executor,  I  am  bound  to  my  own  con- 
science to  take  sedulous  care  that  my 
brother's  child,  if  there  be  one,  gets  what- 
ever my  father's  settlement  has  given  him.' 
*  Your  brother's  child  ! '  cried  Mr.  Strutt, 
in  consternation ;  *  you  will  have  plenty 
of  them  about  you  if  once  it  is  known  that 
you  are  on  the  search.  Pray,  Mr. 
Montcalm,  hold  your  hand  while  you  can. 
There  is  another  thing,  too,'  added  the 
solicitor,  with  the  embarrassed  air  of  a  man 
whose  conscience  obliges  him  to  say  some- 
thing which  he  would  rather  leave  unsaid  ; 
*  you  must  forgive  me  for  saying  it.  I  am 
bound  to  speak  out  to  you.  The  decision 
which  you  are  now  forming  does  not 
concern  yourself  alone.  It  may  revolu- 
tionise your  life.  It  may  involve  you  in 
troubles  of  which  no  one  can  guess  the  end. 
It  may  ruin  a  career  of  honour  and  public 
usefulness.  It  is  a  tremendous,  as  I  regard 
it,  unnecessary,  if  not  unjustifiable,  step, 
even  as  regards  yourself.  But  you  do  not 
stand  alone.     Ought  you  not,  at  any  rate, 


1 68  Sibylla  chap. 

before  you  take  it,  to  consult  those  whose 
interests  are  involved  just  as  much  as  your 
own  ? ' 

'  I  regard  it  as  a  mere  matter  of  honesty/ 
said  Montcalm,  with  a  decisive  air  that  put 
an  end  to  further  talk  ;  '  there  is  no  room 
for  doubt,  and  none,  therefore,  for  con- 
sultation. We  will  discuss  it  no  longer,  if 
you  please,  Mr.  Strutt ;  you  are  right  to 
say  whatever  you  think  that  I  ought  to 
hear.  But  it  does  not  alter  my  opinion. 
I  must  act  on  my  own  responsibility,  and 
by  my  own  lights.  I  have  decided  to 
follow  up  every  obtainable  clue  to  the 
utmost  possible  length.  I  do  not  care 
what  it  costs.  I  should  like  you  to  see 
Jennings  and  find  out  all  he  knows,  and 
get  what  help  he  can  give  you  :  and 
I  wish  some  one  to  be  sent  to  America, 
to  the  Eldorado  Mine,  to  see  if,  by 
chance,  any  sort  of  hint  may  be  gathered 
there.* 

Mr.  Strutt  took  his  instructions  and 
went,  himself,  to  Scotland.  In  the  course 
of  the  following  week  he  wrote  Charles  an 
account  of  his  proceedings.     He  had  had  a 


XII  A  Case  of  Conscience  169 

long  interview  with  Jennings,  and  found 
that  all  he  knew  was  the  merest  rumour, 
the  gossip  of  some  returned  Irish  emigrant, 
who,  in  passing  through  Liverpool,  had 
happened  to  see  a  member  of  Lizzie 
Marsh's  family,  by  whom  the  news  had 
been  brought  to  Belhaven.  It  was  all  third- 
hand  hearsay.  No  one  had  the  faintest 
idea  of  what  had  become  of  the  Irish 
emigrant,  or  how  to  get  upon  his  track. 
Jennings,  Mr.  Strutt  reported,  seemed  a 
mere  fanatic,  without  a  single  qualification 
for  sifting  truth  from  falsehood.  Having 
been  deserted  by  his  sweetheart,  he  had 
constructed  a  conjectural  grievance  against 
some  supposed  wrongdoer.  There  was 
no  grain  of  solid  fact  in  Jennings' 
rhapsodies,  except  that  Frank  Montcalm 
was  said  to  have  known  the  girl.  Nor 
could  anything  be  discovered  in  other 
directions.  Mr.  Strutt  had  made  diligent 
enquiries  at  the  offices  of  mail  companies 
and  emigration  agencies,  but  without 
result.  Frank  Montcalm,  it  was  certain, 
would  have  travelled  under  an  assumed 
name.       There    was    nothing   which  sug- 


lyo  Sibylla  chap. 

gested  a  trace  of  the  fugitives.  There 
was  no  clue  to  follow.  The  enquiry,  Mr. 
Strutt  presumed,  must  now  be  allowed  to 
close. 

Charles  Montcalm  was  not  to  be  so 
easily  discouraged.  There  was  the  chance 
of  something  being  discovered  at  the 
Eldorado  Mine,  and  Mr.  Strutt's  emissary 
was  accordingly  despatched  with  orders 
to  search  diligently  for  anything  which 
might  throw  light  on  Frank's  previous  life, 
and  help  to  clear  up  the  question  of  his 
marriage.  It  was  in  vain  that  Mr.  Strutt 
protested  against  the  futility  of  the  enquiry. 
*  If  there  had  been  a  wife,  we  should  have 
heard  of  her  before  this,'  he  said  ;  *the  wives 
and  widows  of  men  like  your  brother  are  not 
so  slow  to  make  themselves  felt.  I  shudder 
to  think  what  the  wife,  in  this  instance, 
would  be  likely  to  be,  if  we  were  unlucky 
enough  to  discover  her.' 

'  My  great  wish  is  that  she  should  be 
discovered  if  she  is  in  existence,'  said 
Charles,  with  more  show  of  temper  than 
was  usual  with  him  ;  '  and  I  look  to  you 
to  further  it.     It  will  be  time  enough  to 


XII  A  Case  of  Conscience  171 

shudder  when  you  have  found  her.  Mean- 
while, pray  instruct  your  agent  to  spare  no 
effort  in  the  search.  I  will  not  do  the 
thing  by  halves.' 

The  enquiry  at  the  Eldorado  Mine, 
however,  promised  as  little  success  as  that 
in  Scotland.  Mr.  Strutt's  confidential 
agent  wrote  that  he  could  discover  nothing. 
He  had  seen  the  police  commissioner,  by 
whom  the  inquest  on  Frank  Montcalm  had 
been  conducted.  This  gentleman,  a  busy, 
hard-worked  official,  on  being  supplied  with 
the  date,  and  referring  to  his  books,  was 
able  to  remember  the  inquest.  Frank 
Montcalm  was  recorded  as  a  troublesome, 
dangerous  character,  a  hard  drinker,  an 
inveterate  gambler,  a  leading  spirit  in  a 
bad  set,  known  to  the  police  by  frequent 
outbreaks  of  lawlessness.  He  was  generally 
near  the  confines  of  trouble  and  frequently 
over  the  line.  Beyond  this  the  commis- 
sioner could  give  no  information.  The 
witnesses  in  the  case  had  disappeared. 
There  had  been  few;  for  the  evidence 
clearly  showed  that  the  dead  man  had  fallen 
by    violence,  and  that    the   murderer    had 


172  Sibylla  chap. 

fled.  *  Our  criminal  administration  up 
here,'  the  commissioner  told  the  agent, 
'  was,  at  that  time,  of  the  roughest.  It 
was  all  that  we  could  do  to  hold  our  own. 
Murderous  assaults  were  of  daily  occurrence. 
The  affair  attracted  little  attention.  Such 
things  were  too  common.' 

The  agent  wrote  that  he  was  at  a  loss 
to  suggest  any  further  clue.  He  was 
completely  baffled,  and  proposed — unless 
otherwise  instructed — to  return  home  at 
once. 

Meanwhile  the  revival  of  a  hateful  topic 
and  the  anxieties  of  the  enquiry  began  to 
tell  on  Montcalm's  nerves.  He  was  doing 
the  right  thing,  he  told  himself.  Life 
would  be  unendurable  if  he  had  failed  to  do 
it  ;  but,  even  now,  it  was  almost  unendur- 
able. The  pleasant  things  of  existence  had 
ceased  to  please.  Politics  had  lost  their 
flavour.  His  wife  only  reminded  him  of  a 
subject  which  she  served  to  make  more 
full  of  horror.  It  was  on  her  account  that 
he  disliked  it  so  intensely.  It  was  in  vain 
that  he  buried  it  deep  in  the  secret  places 
of  his  heart.     Its  effect  was  discernible  in 


XII  A  Case  of  Conscience  173 

increased  coldness  of  manner,  in  reserve 
which,  more  than  ever,  defied  every  attempt 
to  penetrate  it.  When  a  man  has  a  secret 
locked  up  in  one  chamber  of  his  heart,  he 
can  give  but  a  cold  welcome  to  visitors  to 
the  rest  of  the  house.  One  topic  so  easily 
leads  to  another.  He  never  knows  at  what 
point  embarrassment  may  arise.  He  is 
uneasy,  suspicious,  on  his  guard.  He 
entrenches  himself  in  silence.  Then  only 
he  feels  secure.  So  Charles  Montcalm  un- 
consciously repelled  his  wife's  endeavour  to 
woo  him  to  a  confidential  mood.  Sibylla 
was  chilled  by  the  sense  of  failure.  Her 
husband  was  becoming  daily  more  hope- 
lessly remote,  more  unapproachable.  Each 
failure  on  Sibylla's  part  put  them  further 
apart. 

There  was  another  cause,  if  Sibylla 
could  but  have  known  it,  which  was  be- 
ginning now  to  intensify  her  husband's 
reserve.  He  was  the  last  man  to  be 
jealous.  It  was  an  infirmity  to  which  he 
felt  no  leaning,  and  for  which,  in  others, 
he  felt  little  indulgence.  It  was  a  low, 
degrading    feeling,    and,    in    the    case    of 


174  Sibylla  chap. 

such  a  wife  as  Sibylla — a  wife  of  whose 
loyalty  he  felt  as  assured  as  of  his  own 
existence — it  became  fatuous — an  indignity, 
almost  an  outrage.  Short  of  jealousy,  how- 
ever, it  was  possible  for  Charles  Montcalm 
to  be  haunted  by  a  certain  aching  sensation 
that  there  was  a  space  in  his  wife's  thoughts 
which  he  failed  to  fill,  and  where  another 
was  more  congenial  than  himself.  With- 
out the-  barest  approach  to  watching,  he 
could  scarcely  shut  his  eyes  to  the  fact  that 
Amersham  and  his  wife  had  become  ex- 
tremely intimate.  He  had  come  home, 
more  than  once,  from  the  House  and  found 
Amersham  at  his  wife's  tea  table,  engaged, 
apparently,  in  familiar,  interesting,  con- 
fidential talk.  Sibylla  had  greeted  him 
with  affection,  Amersham  with  perfect 
unrestraint  and  cordiality.  It  was  evident 
that  they  had  nothing  to  conceal.  Yet 
Montcalm  felt  a  horrid  consciousness  of 
being  de  trop.  The  conversation,  suddenly 
interrupted,  refused  to  resume  its  course, 
despite  the  obvious  efforts  of  Sibylla  to 
welcome  her  husband  with  kindness  and 
conjugal    devotion.       When    two    friends 


XII  A  Case  of  Conscience  175 

have  been  talking  in  a  certain  vein  of 
thought  and  feehng,  it  is  impossible,  on  the 
arrival  of  a  third  person,  to  pass  into 
another  key  without  the  momentary  discord, 
which  covers  the  transition.  So  all  parties 
felt  a  pang  of  discomfort ;  all  were  vexed 
to  feel  it,  for  the  consciences  of  all  were 
clear.  No  one  harboured  a  dishonourable 
thought.  Why  should  there  be  discomfort.^ 
Montcalm  had  gone  back  to  the  House 
sometimes,  oppressed  by  the  reflection 
that  Amersham — a  younger  man  than  him- 
self, more  brilliant,  more  companionable, 
more  gay,  more  attractive — was  becoming 
an  influence  in  his  wife's  existence,  and, 
possibly,  in  his  own — a  force  that  had  to 
be  reckoned  with — an  anxiety,  a  possible 
danger  for  himself — for  Sibylla.  Amer- 
sham had  gifts  in  which  Charles  Montcalm 
felt  himself  greatly  defective, — brightness, 
versatility,  sentiment,  and  fun.  Montcalm 
appreciated  the  force  of  fun  in  other  men  ; 
he  admired  his  wife's  gaiety ;  but  he  could 
as  easily  have  flown  as  himself  been  gay. 
Amersham  had  splendid  spirits.  Mont- 
calm's  stood    at    a    steady    \tyt\^    seldom 


176  Sibylla  chap. 

sinking  to  melancholy,  never  rising  far 
above  it.  A  danger  now  loomed  on  the 
horizon.  Sibylla  was,  in  a  hundred  ways, 
a  perfectly  delightful  woman,  transcend- 
ently  delightful.  Montcalm  had  frequently, 
since  his  marriage,  felt  a  new  access  of 
admiration  and  devotion.  He  could  recall 
scenes  in  which  she  had  acted  or  spoken 
or  looked  in  a  manner  that  he  at  the 
moment,  and  now  in  retrospect,  felt  to  be 
simply  adorable.  Other  people,  no  doubt, 
would  feel  the  same  charm — would  be 
prompted,  too,  to  offer  adoration.  What 
would  be  the  effect  of  such  adoration  upon 
her.''  What  if  ever  it  came  to  pass  that 
his  own  ascendency  in  her  affections  should 
be  endangered.^  Life  had  brought  him 
already  some  unexpectedly  bitter  things. 
Suppose  that  it  should  bring  him  this 
crowning  calamity  !  Was  it  already  within 
the  range  of  possibility  that  this  misfortune 
should  befall  him  .^  This  was  the  thought 
which,  deep  in  the  recesses  of  his  soul,  was 
beginning  to  torture  Charles  Montcalm. 
It  blotted  out  the  day,  it  turned  all  things 
to  night  and  chaos.     He  despised  himself 


XII  A  Case  of  Conscience  177 

for  harbouring  it.  He  knew  that  it  was 
baseless,  irrational.  Yet  the  idea  persistently 
presented  itself.  His  fancy  kept  playing 
with  it.  He  w^as  indignant  at  his  own 
infirmity,  an  unworthy  weakness.  He 
would,  at  any  rate,  conceal  it.  He  would 
be  kinder,  politer,  more  courteous  than 
ever  to  the  man  whom  he  was  allowing 
himself  to  suspect  as  a  possible  rival.  Such 
a  suspicion  was  degrading.  It  would  be 
ignominious  to  betray  it,  or  to  do  or  say 
anything  which  could  be  construed  as 
betraying  it.  He  would  show  an  unshaken 
equanimity.  It  was  easy  enough  to  do  this 
with  Amersham :  but  with  one's  wife !  How, 
when  one  is  harbouring  such  a  suspicion, 
can  one  behave,  so  that  the  delicate  sense  of 
love  should  perceive  no  difference,  should 
be  unconscious  of  constraint,  of  effort,  of 
intercourse  less  free,  less  unstudied  than  of 
old,  of  a  subtle  something  which  has  grown 
up  between  husband  and  wife,  an  imper- 
ceptible barrier,  but  none  the  less  real,  none 
the  less  effective  .^  So  it  came  about  that 
talk  between  Montcalm  and  his  wife  some- 
times languished.     There  were  distressing 

VOL.    I  N 


178  Sibylla 


CHAP.   XI] 


pauses  in  the  conversation,  which  used  to 
flow  so  free  and  strong.  Each  had  some- 
thing to  conceal.  Montcalm  harboured 
the  germ  of  a  suspicion  ;  Sibylla's  soul 
was  withering  under  a  sense  of  isolation. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

THE    COMMUNION    OF    SOULS 

This  is  such  a  creature, 
Would  she  begin  a  sect,  might  quench  the  zeal 
Of  all  professors  else,  make  proselytes 
Of  who  she  but  bid  follow. 

There  are  occasions  in  the  history  of  every 
friendship,  when,  without  conscious  inten- 
tion or  wish  on  either  side — sometimes 
despite  them — intimacy  takes  a  sudden  leap 
forward.  A  new  vantage-ground  is  gained. 
Some  barrier  is  passed  ;  some  dividing,  ob- 
scuring cloud  is  swept  away.  Two  natures 
— they  know  not  how  or  why — have  drawn 
sensibly  closer  to  each  other — are  more  to 
each  other  than  they  were  yesterday. 
Delightful  sensation !  not  without  its 
questionings,  its  scruples,  its  anxieties — 
but  still  delightful ! 


i8o  Sibylla  chap. 

Amersham  had  now  an  agreeable  con- 
sciousness of  having  passed  through  such  a 
stage  in  his  friendship  with  Sibylla.  He 
could  not  trace  the  process  ;  certain  it  was 
that  he  had  advanced  in  intimacy.  The  truth 
was  that  he  presented  the  attraction  which 
at  this  moment  Sibylla  felt  to  be  especially 
powerful — the  offer  of  cordial  and  sympa- 
thetic companionship.  He  wished  to  be  her 
friend.  He  valued  her  opinion  ;  he  desired 
her  esteem.  Such  an  approach  is  irresistible 
to  a  heart  that  is  aching  for  want  of  sym- 
pathy at  home.  Charles  Montcalm  was  any- 
thing rather  than  sympathetic.  He  was 
engrossed  in  his  work  to  a  degree  that  his 
wife  felt  to  be  distinctly  selfish.  He  wanted 
no  one  to  share  it  ;  he  resented  intrusion 
into  the  mental  world  in  which  he  lived 
alone.  He  guarded  his  family  secret — 
whatever  it  might  be — with  jealous  care. 
No  one — not  his  wife,  certainly — might 
hope  to  share  it.  Such  a  man's  wife  is 
likely  to  be  oppressed  by  a  sense  of  the 
solitariness  of  existence. 

Into  this  void  Amersham's  sociability 
poured    like    a    refreshing    flood    upon    a 


XIII  The  Communion  of  Souls  i8i 

thirsty  soil.  It  refreshed,  revived,  brought 
new  life  with  it.  Here,  at  any  rate,  was  a 
companion,  who  found  pleasure  in  exchange 
of  thought,  in  comparison  of  ideas,  in  frank 
expression  of  feeling.  Sibylla  was  weary  of 
isolation.  She  longed  for  companionship, 
geniality,  enlivenment,  kindness.  Every 
healthy  nature  feels  such  a  want.  Amer- 
sham  brought  all  these  good  things  in 
opportune  abundance. 

Nothing  surprised  Sibylla  more  than  the 
contrast  between  the  Amersham  of  society 
— the  brilliant  creature  of  drawing-rooms 
and  little  dinners — and  the  man  who  was 
now  rapidly  becoming  her  confidential 
friend.  His  air  with  her  was  as  far  re- 
moved as  possible  from  the  audacious 
flippancy  with  which  he  confronted  the 
world  at  large.  The  cup  of  tea  which  he 
drank  in  her  drawing-room  might  have 
been  a  magic  potion,  administered  by  an 
enchantress,  so  altered  a  being  did  Amer- 
sham appear.  The  fact  was  that  he  had 
been  from  the  first  moment  of  their  meet- 
ing delighted  with  his  companion.  He 
had   been  thinking   about  her  ever  since. 


0 

1 82  Sibylla  chap. 

He  was  bent  on  conciliating  her,  on  cultivat- 
ing her  friendship,  on  finding  and  touching 
a  sympathetic  chord. 

Under  such  fostering  conditions  intimacy 
grew  apace.  Sibylla  began  to  discover  that 
they  were  nearer  to  each  other  in  thought 
and  feeling  than  she  had  at  first  supposed. 
Despite  superficial  differences,  there  was  a 
fellow-feeling  between  them.  Stripped  of 
its  cynical  garb,  Amersham's  view  of  life 
was  not  far  removed  from  her  own — as  of 
something  sad,  unsatisfying,  and  disap- 
pointing, even  to  those  best  supplied  with 
its  blessings — full  of  horrors  to  the  less 
fortunate.  Some  things  which  Amersham 
said  seemed  shocking  ;  but,  when  their 
meaning  was  understood,  Sibylla  was  fain 
to  confess  to  herself  that  there  was  little 
real  occasion  to  be  shocked.  He,  like  her- 
self, cherished  dreams  of  the  ideal  revolu- 
tion, so  many  ages  waited  for,  which  is  to 
bring  bliss  and  refreshment  to  a  weary 
world.  Both  of  them  were  convinced  that, 
if  life  is  to  be  worth  living,  it  must  be 
stirred  with  better  ingredients  than  from 
the   average    constituents  of  society.      So 


XIII  The  Communion  of  Souls  183 

much  in  it  is  dull  and  petty,  so  much  is 
commonplace,  so  much  sordid,  base  and 
bad.  Short  of  the  criminal  classes,  there 
are  the  semi-criminal — the  odious  people, 
the  heartless,  the  mean,  the  cruel,  the 
treacherous.  The  great  thing  is  not  to 
come  across  them,  or,  if  needs  be,  to  fight 
them  courageously  on  behalf  of  the  op- 
pressed, the  weak.  In  the  great  world 
around  one,  there  is  such  dire  need  of  help 
on  every  side,  if  any  one  can  but  give  it 
rightly,  and  such  delight  in  giving — the  true 
enthusiasm  of  humanity.  Sibylla  drank 
largely  of  this  delight;  she  was  an  enthusiast. 

Amersham  shared  her  discontent  with 
the  world,  if  not  her  enthusiasm  for  its  im- 
provement, or  her  belief  in  its  improva- 
bility.  In  any  case  he  was  delighted  to 
let  Sibylla  try  her  hand  at  improving  him. 

Sibylla  had,  one  day,  been  hearing  his 
political  confession — his  apology  and  ex- 
planation of  a  recent  vote,  to  which  she  had, 
at  first,  vehemently  objected.  Amersham 
defended  himself  with  earnestness,  and  took 
the  greatest  pains  to  win  his  companion  to 
his  view. 


184  Sibylla  chap. 

'  No,'  said  Sibylla,  '  I  am  not  convinced  ; 
but  I  see  that  you  are — seriously  convinced 
— that  your  advocacy  is  honest.  That  is 
what  one  really  cares  about  in  one's 
friends.' 

*  Ah  ! '  said  Amersham.  '  You  care. 
That  is  so  charming.  You  take  an  interest 
in  one's  career.  I  shall  be  eternally  grate- 
ful. No  woman  has  ever  been  interested  in 
me  before,  except  as  a  matrimonial  specula- 
tion ;  but  you  are  so  delightfully  dis- 
interested.' 

^  No  ! '  said  Sibylla,  laughingly,  '  I  am 
anything  but  disinterested  :  I  want  you  for 
our  party.  My  special  mission  is  to  secure 
you  ;  I  have  always  told  you  so.  But, 
apart  from  that^  I  feel  an  interest  in  your 
conversion.  It  is  in  the  right  order  of 
things  that  you  should  belong  to  us.' 

'  I  know  that  you  are  perfectly  dis- 
interested and  perfectly  sincere,'  said 
Amersham  with  an  air  of  enthusiasm  ; 
'  that  is  why  I  prize  your  friendship  as  a 
precious  possession.  You  are  such  a  help 
to  me.' 

*  Ah,  but,'  said  Sibylla,  '  I  do  not  feel  so 


XIII  The  Communion  of  Souls  185 

sure  of  that.  Sometimes  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
give  you  least  help  where  I  should  most 
wish  to  give  it.' 

'  Indeed,'  said  Amersham  ;  '  you  help 
me  immensely.  I  am  ten  times  better 
whenever  I  have  been  with  you — better, 
happier,  more  interested,  more  everything 
that  one  ought  to  be  and  is  not.  You  have 
my  salvation  on  your  hands.' 

^  The  first  step  towards  salvation,'  said 
Sibylla,  '  is  to  hope  for  the  best — to  wish 
to  hope  ;  not  to  preach  the  dismal  lesson  of 
despair.' 

'  Yes,  I  know,'  said  her  companion ; 
*  dismal  and  degrading,  is  it  not  ^  I  feel 
ashamed  of  it  when  I  am  with  you  and 
catch  your  delightful  hopefulness.  But 
the  world,  after  all,  is  not  a  brilliant 
success.  Despite  all  its  clever  discoveries, 
humanity  has  had  a  bad  time  of  it,  and 
may  be  going  to  have  a  worse.  Some 
agreeable  Frenchman  or  other  described 
man  as  the  cleverest  and  worst-behaved  of 
the  animals.' 

'  Treason  ! '  cried  Sibylla.  '  Think  of 
him  as  Hamlet  did — as  the  paragon  of  the 


1 86  Sibylla  chap. 

Universe,  noble  in  reason,  in  action  like  an 
angel,  in  apprehension  like  a  God.' 

'  That  is  not  the  sort  of  man  whom  one 
meets  at  the  House,'  said  Amersham  ;  '  our 
apprehension  is  not  God -like,  nor  our 
behaviour  like  any  angels  except  the  fallen 
ones.  As  for  reason,  it  is  such  a  poor  affair, 
that  all  sensible  people  have,  long  ago, 
abandoned  argument  as  a  method.  One 
sees  men  struggling  against  their  fate, 
constantly  led  astray,  falling  this  way  or 
that.  They  cannot  help  it.  They  are  so 
constructed  that  they  can  no  more  argue 
straight  than  a  ball  with  a  bias  can  run 
straight  on  the  lawn.  One  has  a  bias  one- 
self, and  cannot  roll  straight  any  more  than 
the  rest,  if  one  only  knew  it.  Happily 
one  does  not.' 

*  Yes,'  said  Sibylla  ;  '  I  know  mine,  and 
allow  for  it.    I  am  on  the  side  of  the  angels.' 

*  Then,'  cried  Amersham,  *  I  will  be  on 
the  side  of  the  angels  too, — on  their  side 
and  yours.' 

*  Poor  angels  ! '  said  the  other,  *  what 
will  they  think  of  the  alliance  ^  But  you 
must  discard  your  pessimism.     That  is  an 


XIII  The  Communion  of  Souls  187 

essentially  unangelic  mood.  The  use  of 
great  men  is  to  make  the  world  better,  and 
the  greatest  have  been  those  who  have  loved 
their  species  the  best.  You  seem  to  dis- 
like it.' 

'  There  is  much  to  dislike,'  said  Amer- 
sham,  *  and  much  to  pity.  Man  made  a 
bad  start  of  it  at  the  outset  and  has  been 
doing  badly  ever  since.  The  gods  must  pity 
him  surely — his  ghastly  blunders,  his  savage 
moodsj  his  odious  superstitions,  his  fanatic 
delusions — what  a  story  it  has  been  and  is! ' 

*  You  forget  its  sublime  side,'  said  Sibylla, 
*  the  saints,  the  martyrs,  the  heroes — the 
good  people  who  ennoble  their  generation 
and  make  life  worth  living.' 

'  Is  it  worth  living .? '  said  Amersham,  a 
sudden  melancholy  in  his  tone.  '  Look  at 
its  catastrophes,  its  fragile  tenure  of  happi- 
ness, most  fragile  to  the  happiest — a  thread, 
which  any  of  a  thousand  accidents  may  snap 
in  a  moment !  And  it  is  of  such  accidents 
that  life  consists.  Given  its  conditions,  it 
may  be  a  mistake  to  cultivate  our  feelings 
as  we  do — to  have  any  deep  feelings  at  all. 
They  involve  so  much  suffering ' 


1 88  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


*  On  the  other  hand,'  said  Sibylla,  '  so 
much  pleasure,  such  rapture.  Surely  you 
would  not  give  up  these  ? ' 

'  One  does  not  give  them  up,'  said 
Amersham,  '  and  so  the  world  goes  on. 
But  it  might  be  sensible  to  do  so.  The 
Stoic's  idea  has  much  to  say  for  itself. 
Suffering  is  the  fate  of  all,  and  to  cultivate 
endurance  the  aim  of  the  wise  man.  The 
first  step  towards  endurance  is  indiffer- 
ence.' 

'  A  horrible  doctrine !  '  cried  Sibylla, 
*  What  has  thrown  you  into  such  a  gloomy 
mood.f^  For  my  part  I  dislike  Stoics  and 
disbelieve  in  Stoicism.  It  is  too  stagey. 
The  Roman  Statesman  opening  his  veins, 
gracefully  despatching  himself,  on  a  man- 
date from  the  Emperor,  and  making  a  polite 
and  appropriate  observation  !  I  was  reading 
of  Seneca's  death  this  morning.  He  could 
not  achieve  suicide,  in  proper  stoical  fashion, 
for  the  excellent  reason  that  he  had  not  got 
a  drop  of  blood  in  his  veins.  It  was  so 
characteristic.  Philosophy  had  dried  him 
up — fine  sentences  and  all.' 

'  Perhaps    we    are    drying    up ! '     cried 


XIII  The  Communion  of  Souls  189 

Amersham  with  a  laugh  ;  '  but  one  thing, 
happily,  does  not  dry  up — the  devotion 
which  a  noble  woman  inspires  in  her  friends 
—  the  best  sort  of  inspiration  for  feeble 
hearts  and  a  decadent  century.  Who  could 
despair  when  Mrs.  Montcalm  is  hopeful,  or 
falter  when  she  preaches  enthusiasm.?  So 
far,  at  any  rate,  I  am  an  enthusiast.' 


CHAPTER   XIV 

l'homme  serieux 

He  loves  no  plays, 
As  thou  dost,  Antony  ;  he  hears  no  music  ; 
Seldom  he  smiles,  and  smiles  in  such  a  sort 
As  if  he  mocked  himself  and  scorned  his  spirit 
That  could  be  moved  to  smile  at  any  thing. 

One  of  the  unwholesome  fallacies  which 
endanger  married  life,  is  the  flattering 
unction,  laid  to  a  misguided  husband's 
soul,  that  it  is,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
possible  for  him  to  be  equally  well  loved 
when  he  has  ceased  to  be  lovable — that  a 
man  may  be  morose,  secretive,  despotic,  in 
fact  detestable,  and  yet  reign  undisturbed 
in  his  wife's  affections.  Woman's  inex- 
haustible long-suffering,  her  power  of 
bearing  in  submission  every  species  of  ill- 
treatment,  and  of  smiling  serenely  through 


CHAP.  XIV  U Homme  Serieux  191 

endless  vexations  and  humiliations,  is  largely 
responsible  for  this  delusion.  But  a  delusion 
it  is.  Every  unlovely  act  and  word  is  a 
stab  to  love,  for  love  is  the  harmony  of 
two  well-attuned  hearts.  When  the  har- 
mony is  jarred,  love  itself  has  no  charm 
to  shield  the  sensitive  ear  from  the  discord 
which  ensues. 

One  of  Sibylla's  sorrows,  just  now,  was 
the  growing  consciousness  of  such  discords 
— a  terrified  sense  that  there  were  moments 
when  she  loved  her  husband  less  than 
before — moments  of  disappointment,  vex- 
ation, annoyance,  distress,  when  she  could 
hardly,  in  a  strict  sense,  be  said  to  love 
him  at  all.  The  shrine  where  she  had  so 
devoutly  worshipped  was  growing  dark 
and  cold  :  the  flame  was  sinking  low. 
Where  all  had  once  been  brightness  and  a 
genial  warmth,  there  was  a  growing  heap 
of  dust  and  ashes.  Charles,  by  cold  act 
and  word,  by  reserve,  by  careless  neglect 
of  love's  observances,  by  a  denial  of  love's 
rights,  was  constantly  adding  to  the  heap. 
Sibylla's  heart  grew  cold  at  the  thought  of 
approaching  disaster  and  her  powerlessness 


192  Sibylla  chap. 

to  arrest  it.  It  was  the  march  of  doom — 
quiet,  merciless,  irresistible. 

When  matters  have  reached  such  a 
stage,  shortcomings,  which  in  happier 
times  could  be  ignored  or  made  light  of, 
force  themselves  into  importance,  and 
aggravate  the  embarrassment  of  the  situ- 
ation. Charles's  matter-of-fact,  prosaic 
view  of  things  had  been  a  recognised  joke 
between  them  all.  Lady  Holte,  who 
particularly  resented  his  lack  of  mirth, 
and  his  incapacity  for  the  sort  of  mild 
flirtation  for  which  she  found  the  general- 
ity of  mankind  prepared,  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  air  her  pleasantries  on  the  subject 
with  a  freedom  which  sometimes  taxed  her 
cousin's  good  nature,  and  Charles's  polite- 
ness. 

*  Here,  Charles,'  she  had  said,  one 
morning,  when  caught,  curled  up  on  a 
sofa  by  the  drawing-room  fire,  immersed 
in  a  Review,  '  here  is  just  the  sort  of 
Shakespearian  critic  you  would  like — Von 
Hartman.  Juliet,  he  says,  was  a  naughty, 
forward  girl,  of  whom  German  maidens 
would  do  well  to  beware ;   and  Romeo  a 


XIV  U Homme  Serieux  193 

misdemeanant  and  trespasser,  who,  under 
the  German  Police  Act,  would  have  got 
a  fine  of  twenty -five  thalers  and  three 
weeks'  imprisonment/ 

'  Excellent  criticism  !  '  said  Montcalm, 
looking  down  at  his  assailant  with  un- 
perturbed solemnity  ;  '  yes,  I  approve  it. 
Romeo  was  a  philanderer.  There  is  a 
practical  side,  even  to  Shakespeare.  There 
was  an  old  woman  who  summarised  the 
impressions  made  on  her  by  the  Prince 
of  Denmark  by  observing,  with  tears  in 
her  eyes,  "  Them  Hamlets  had  a  deal  of 
trouble." ' 

'  Come  and  sit  down  and  tell  me  another 
story  like  that,'  said  the  temptress  ;  '  you 
might  for  once.' 

'  Impossible  ! '  said  her  companion.  '  I 
have  a  heap  of  letters  to  write.  By  the 
way,  when  you  have  finished  your  studies, 
will  you  send  me  the  Edinburgh  into  the 
library }  I  am  in  the  middle  of  an  article 
on  bi-metallism.' 

'  You  would  not  care  to  explain  bi- 
metallism to  me  ? '  asked  Lady  Holte, 
some  impudent  flashes  of  merriment  play- 

VOL.  I  o 


I04  Sibylla  chap. 

ing  round  eyes  and  lips  ;  '  you  can  tell 
me  all  about  it.' 

'That  I  shall  do  better  when  I  have 
finished  the  article,'  said  Montcalm,  with 
a  stately  bow.  '  Meanwhile,  pray  take 
your  leisure  with  Von  Hartman.' 

Nor  was  it  in  the  family  circle  alone 
that  Montcalm's  increasing  gravity  began 
to  be  observed. 

'  Why    does    the    great    Duke    Humphrey  knit  his 

brows, 
As  frowning  at  the  pleasures  of  the  world  ?' 

Miss  Everard,  with  her  habitual  sauci- 
ness,  had  asked  her  companion,  as  Charles, 
who  was  to  meet  his  wife  on  his  way 
home  from  the  House,  stood  in  the  door- 
way of  a  crowded  drawing-room  —  pale, 
self-centred,  unconscious,  his  thoughts, 
apparently,  a  hundred  miles  away  from  his 
surroundings.  '  The  Government  are  in 
a  bad  way,  we  all  know,  but  why  look  so 
sad  about  it  .^ ' 

'  The  cares  of  State,'  said  Edenbridge, 
who  was  standing,  fast  blocked,  behind  her, 
'  the  business  of  a  rising  politician.     You 


XIV  L' Homme  Serieux  195 

must  take  it  seriously.  The  first  qualifi- 
cation of  a  successful  augur  is  not  to  smile 
when  he  meets  another  augur.  And  there 
are  a  great  many  augurs  here  to-night.' 

'  Yes,  indeed  ;  you  amongst  them.  It 
is  tremendously  official.  We  must  take 
care.  Well,  if  political  success  is  as 
solemn  a  business  as  that,  I  am  not  sorry 
to  be  a  woman.  Mr.  Montcalm  knows 
his  business,  I  suppose.' 

'He  does,'  said  Edenbridge,  senten- 
tiously.  '  The  paths  of  glory  lead  but 
from  the  grave.' 

But  the  gravity  which  the  outer  world 
could  afford  to  joke  about,  was  no  jok- 
ing matter  in  Charles  Montcalm's  home. 
Sibylla  felt  it  increasingly  oppressive.  She 
had  not  till  now  fully  appreciated  how 
bright,  in  comparison,  how  gay,  how  light 
in  hand  her  father  was,  how  enlivening 
a  tonic  his  companionship.  Life  looks 
portentous  when  you  take  it  point-blank, 
with  no  alleviating  touch  of  humour.  No 
man,  and  certainly  no  woman,  can  live  on 
bread  alone  —  not  even  on  the  honest, 
home-baked  loaf  of  good  sense,  high  prin- 


196  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


ciples  and  laudable  intentions.  Charles 
Montcalm  was  designed  for  a  patriot. 
He  was  public-spirited  to  the  core.  He 
loved  his  country  ;  he  meant  to  serve  it. 
No  amount  of  trouble,  of  sacrifice,  was  too 
great  that  would  enable  him  to  do  so. 
But  the  business  of  patriotism  is  a  grave 
one  for  the  looker-on.  It  needs  relief. 
The  patriot  should  now  and  then  unbend. 
It  is  a  comfort  to  think  of  Mr.  Pitt,  in 
a  holiday  moment,  digging  Wilberforce's 
hat  into  the  flower-beds.  It  would  not 
have  occurred  to  any  one  to  take  such  a 
liberty  with  one  of  Charles  Montcalm's 
hats. 

And  now,  as  so  often  happens,  when  the 
relations  of  husband  and  wife  have  ceased  to 
be  perfectly  comfortable,  the  malignity  of 
circumstance  lent  its  aid  to  enhance  the 
difficulty  and  precipitate  a  crisis. 

Charles  Montcalm  was  not  what  Dr. 
Johnson  would  have  called  a  clubbable  man. 
He  had  no  small  talk,  none  of  the  easy 
sociability  which  renders  club-life  congenial, 
and  makes  a  man  popular  among  his  fellows. 
His  shyness    took  the    form  of  a  reserve, 


XIV  U Homme  Serieux  197 

which  even  his  intimates  felt  to  be  chilling, 
and  which  the  world  at  large  recognised  as 
'stand  off.'  He  shrank  from  familiarity. 
Those  whom  he  thus  repelled  accused  him 
of  standing  on  his  dignity.  So  Montcalm, 
when  he  went  to  his  club,  often  found  it  a 
solitude.  He  generally  went,  however,  on 
his  way  to  the  House,  looked  at  the  Papers 
and  Reviews,  and  exchanged  a  few  sentences 
with  some  of  his  Parliamentary  companions. 

One  afternoon  as  he  sat  reading,  deep 
sunk  in  the  luxury  of  a  large  arm-chair,  he 
became  aware  of  a  conversation  behind  him, 
which  suddenly  arrested  his  attention. 

'  There  goes  Amersham ! '  cried  one  of 
a  group  of  idlers,  who  stood  in  the  bay- 
window,  overlooking  St.  James's  Street,  and 
welcomed  any  topic  from  without  which 
was  likely  to  aid  a  halting,  desultory  talk. 
'What  the  deuce  becomes  of  him  all  the 
afternoon .?  He  is  never  to  be  found  in  the 
House.  He  never  comes  here.  He  is  not 
a  whist  player.     There  must  be  a  mystery.' 

'  As  mystery  is  one  word  for  woman, 
there  probably  is,'  said  a  bystander ;  '  but 
it  is  not  a  difficult  mystery  to  solve.     He  is 


198  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


going    to  consult    his  Egeria.       He    is  so 
affectionate.' 

*  Of  course,'  cried  a  profane  young 
diplomatist,  who  at  this  moment  joined 
the  circle,  *  nowadays  every  smart  young 
gentleman  has  some  kind  friend  whose 
mission  it  is  to  give  him  five-o'clock  tea 
and  help  and  guidance.' 

'  Help  and  guidance !  '  said  another  of 
the  group.  '  Is  that  what  they  call  it } 
That  sounds  extremely  smart.' 

*  Yes,'  said  the  diplomat,  '  Amersham  is 
above  everything  a  smart  young  gentleman. 
He  likes  to  be  in  the  fashion,  and  he  adores 
five-o'clock  tea.  It  is  the  only  meal,  he  says, 
that  a  civilised  being  can  enjoy.  But  the 
virtue  of  tea,  we  all  know,  depends  entirely 
on  who  makes  it.  It  is  so  easy  to  make  it 
badly.    Who  is  the  fascinating  tea-maker } ' 

Montcalm  got  up  and  walked  away 
before  the  question  could  be  answered. 
He  would  not  acknowledge  to  himself  that 
he  dreaded  to  hear  the  answer.  What 
mattered  to  him  the  random,  ribald  talk 
of  a  chance  group  of  gossips  in  a  club 
window.^     Still,  the  horrid  possibility  kept 


XIV  UHomme  Serieux  199 

recurring  to  his  imagination  that  the 
explanation  of  Amersham's  daily  dis- 
appearance from  his  accustomed  haunts  was 
the  true  one,  and  that  the  woman  was 
Sibylla.  He  had  more  than  once  found 
Amersham  by  his  wife's  tea-table,  chatting 
on,  it  seemed,  in  pleasant  unconsciousness 
of  the  flight  of  time.  Could  it  be  that  it 
was  with  her  that  his  afternoons  were  spent  ^ 
that  his  habit  of  doing  so  was  known  in 
society,  and  that  men  dared  to  breathe  her 
name  as  the  heroine  of  a  vulgar  flirtation — 
her  name — Sibylla,  the  very  embodiment  of 
all  that  was  high-minded,  refined  and 
scrupulously,  exquisitely  pure  .^  Life  would 
indeed  have  ceased  to  be  worth  living  if  this 
were  so.  All  intrusion  into  domestic 
privacy — the  sacred  privacy  of  married  life 
— was  an  abomination.  But  intrusion  of 
this  kind — the  intrusion  of  the  frivolous 
searcher  for  scandal  or  amusement,  of  the 
careless  gossip  -  monger,  of  the  amused 
onlooker,  who  see  nothing  but  fun  in  the 
ruin  of  happy  homes  and  honourable  lives  ! 
It  was  horrible  even  in  imagination. 

Montcalm  sat  stubbornly  through    the 


200  Sibylla  chap. 

debate  that  night,  his  hat  over  his  brow,  his 
arms  crossed,  biting  his  nether  Hp,  lost  to 
all  around  him.  There  are  horrors  in 
married  life — possible  horrors — of  which  he 
had  never  dreamed.  They  were  becoming 
more  than  possible.  They  were  close  at 
hand.  A  deep  gloom  was  settling  on  his 
soul. 

There  was  a  great  entertainment  that 
evening,  a  quasi-political  function  which  it 
was  desirable  to  make  as  brilliant  as  might 
be.  Sibylla,  it  was  settled,  should  attend 
it.  Her  husband  was  to  meet  her  there  ; 
and  thither,  when  the  House  rose,  Charles 
Montcalm  took  his  way. 

The  crowd  was  enormous,  the  heat 
oppressive,  Sibylla  was  not  in  force  or  spirits, 
and,  but  that  she  was  to  wait  for  her  hus- 
band, would  have  been  glad  to  get  away. 
The  heat,  the  noise,  the  crush  distressed 
her.  '  Surely  the  most  barbarous  of  all 
forms  of  entertainment ! '  she  had  said  to 
Amersham  as  they  met  in  the  tide-way 
of  a  well -blocked  staircase.  'Why  do 
people  give  them.f*  And  how  is  one  to 
breathe  ^ ' 


XIV 


U Homme  Serieux  201 


'  I  know  this  house  of  old,'  said 
Amersham,  '  let  me  take  you  to  a  cool 
retreat.  There  is  a  verandah  at  the  end  of 
the  passage  where  we  can  breathe  in  peace. 
The  night  air  will  refresh  you,  and  when 
talk  fails,  we  can  look  out  for  Jupiter's 
fifth  moon.' 

*  I  shall  be  thankflil,'  said  Sibylla  ;  '  but 
we  shall  miss  Charles.  He  is  to  come  here 
from  the  House  :  the  long  gallery  is  our 
rendezvous.' 

'  I  will  leave  a  message  for  him  at  the 
door,'  said  Amersham.  *  The  porter  is  a 
particular  friend  of  mine.  I  can  trust  him 
implicitly.' 

'  I  have  left  a  message,'  he  said,  re-emerg- 
ing, a  few  minutes  later,  from  the  crowd 
through  which  he  had  made  his  way.  *  The 
porter  is  watching  at  the  door.  We  can  go 
and  enjoy  ourselves  with  an  easy  conscience. 
You  must  follow  me.' 

The  verandah  was  half  empty.  Only 
the  initiated  were  aware  of  it  ;  and  of  the 
initiated,  only  a  wise  few  preferred  the 
night,  the  stars  and  the  silent  heaven,  to 
the  blaze  of  satin,  diamonds,  and  electric 


202  Sibylla  chap. 

lights  and  the  roar  of  talk  indoors.     Sibylla 
sank  wearily  into  an  easy  chair. 

*  The  pleasures  of  life,'  she  said,  '  are 
the  least  pleasant  thing  about  it.  I  feel 
dreadfully  oppressed.' 

'  We  belong  to  an  oppressed  class,'  cried 
Amersham,  bringing  a  comfortable  chair 
near  to  Sibylla's ;  '  the  other  classes  op- 
press us.  They  talk  of  their  grievances  ; 
but  think  of  ours !  It  is  we  who  are  the 
martyrs.' 

'  Martyrs } '  said  Sibylla  ;  *  I  am  haunted 
by  the  consciousness  of  wanting  a  little 
martyrdom  and  deserving  it.  We  have 
too  much  enjoyment.' 

*  Too  much  enjoyment ! '  cried  Amer- 
sham ;  *  we  have  all  the  worst  of  it. 
Everybody  else  fares  better  than  we.  Who 
can  doubt,  for  instance,  that  servants  are 
far  happier  than  their  masters  ?  It  is  natural 
that  they  should  be.  One  is  tempted  to  re- 
pine at  the  inequality  of  human  lots.  Just 
compare  our  footmen  and  ourselves,  such  a 
night  as  this.  You  have  been  half  an  hour 
getting  here — two  streets  at  the  rate  of  a 
slow  funeral.     You  were  confronted  by  a 


XIV  n Homme  Serieux  203 

human  avalanche  on  the  stairs.  But  for  my 
happy  thought,  you  would  now  be  engaged 
in  a  veritable  struggle  for  life  in  a  be- 
diamonded  mob — across  which  Mr.  Mont- 
calm, when  he  arrives,  would  look  at  you 
in  mute  despair.  It  will  take  you  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour  to  get  away.  You  will 
presently  enact  the  same  scene  at  the  rival 
great  party  of  the  evening  on  the  other  side 
of  the  square.  You  did  the  same  yesterday. 
You  will  do  the  same  to-morrow — every 
to-morrow  till  July.' 

'  Heaven  forbid  ! '  cried  Sibylla. 

'  Now  think  of  that  privileged  being, 
your  footman.  Having  disposed  of  you  at 
your  host's  door,  he  goes  away  without  a 
care.  He  sits  at  ease  outside  in  the  cool, 
delicious  night.  He  watches  the  procession 
of  the  stars,  the  setting  moon,  Aurora's 
first  faint  blush  as  she  smiles  upon  the 
world.  He  feels  the  wholesome  dews. 
He  need  not  talk  unless  he  likes,  or  rack 
his  brains  for  an  appropriate  remark.  He 
speaks  when  he  pleases  and  says  what  he 
means.  While  you  are  being  hustled  in 
the  quest  of  a  cup  of  tea  or  an  ice,  he  quaffs 


204  Si  by  lie 


CHAP. 


a  pot  of  beer — cool,  frothy,  ambrosial,  much 
nicer  than  tea  or  champagne — and  smokes 
a  friendly  pipe.  He  has  no  care,  no  anxiety, 
no  duty  but  to  go  where  the  policeman 
tells  him  and  wait  till  he  is  called.  He 
stands  serene  and  unmoved  while  the  link- 
man  bawls  out  your  name  and  shocks  the 
shuddering  ear  of  night  with  the  announce- 
ment that  Mrs.  Montcalm's  carriage  stops 
the  way !  Which  of  you  has  the  best  of  it  .^ 
and  who,  with  such  an  instance  before  him, 
would  dare  to  assert  that  the  favours  of 
Heaven  are  equally  bestowed  ^ ' 

Amersham  defended  his  paradox  with 
the  mock  earnestness  that  its  silliness 
deserved.  He  was  talking  nonsense  ;  the 
theme  and  the  argument  were  equally  non- 
sensical. It  was  pleasant  to  him  to  talk  and 
watch  Sibylla  half-resting,  half-amused. 
Now,  however,  a  look  which  spoke  neither 
of  rest  nor  amusement,  portrayed  itself  on 
Sibylla  s  features. 

Amersham  turned  round  and  saw  Mont- 
calm standing  behind  him  with  an  angry 
expression  in  his  eyes,  his  lips  tightly  drawn, 
his   air  as  imperative  as  politeness  would 


XIV  L! Homme  Serieux  205 

allow — altogether  an  uncongenial  intruder. 
He  gave  Amersham  the  coldest  possible 
recognition. 

'  I  have  been  looking  everywhere  for 
you,  Sibylla,'  he  said ;  '  we  agreed  to  meet 
in  the  long  gallery.' 

'  Yes,'  said  Sibylla,  '  but  I  was  suffering 
from  the  heat.  Mr.  Amersham  was  kind 
enough  to  get  me  out  of  the  crowd.  He 
left  word  for  you  at  the  door  to  come  and 
find  us  here.' 

'  That  faithless  porter  ! '  cried  Amer- 
sham. '  How  came  he  to  miss  you  ^  But 
sit  down  now,  Montcalm,  and  cool  yourself, 
or  go  to  the  buffet  and  reward  your  labours 
by  a  glass  of  Lord  Hunstanton's  excellent 
champagne.' 

'  Thank  you,'  said  Montcalm  with  his 
coldest  and  most  dignified  air,  '  I  believe 
that  my  wife  will  be  glad  to  get  home. 
Come,  Sibylla.     Good-night,  Amersham.' 

Amersham,  thus  summarily  dismissed, 
looked  after  the  departing  couple  in  blank 
amazement.  He  had  read  the  same  amaze- 
ment in  Mrs.  Montcalm's  eyes  as  he  wished 
her  good-night.     Montcalm  was  evidently 


2o6  Sibylla 


CHAP.   XIV 


in  a  rage — too  great  a  rage  to  be  polite. 
His  wife  would  have  a  disagreeable  drive 
home  ;  and  what  a  home,  if  this  was  the 
way  in  which  Montcalm  was  accustomed  to 
behave !  Sibylla's  occasional  melancholy 
looks  were  easily  explained  !  It  was  amus- 
ing, at  any  rate,  to  have  seen  the  just  man 
made  perfect  for  once  off  his  balance,  and 
in  a  common,  human  passion.  But  poor 
Mrs.  Montcalm ! 


CHAPTER   XV 

A    QUARREL 

Unkindness  may  do  much  ; 
And  his  unkindness  may  defeat  my  life. 
But  never  taint  my  love. 

*  I  AM  SO  sorry  that  we  missed  each  other,' 
Sibylla  said,  as  the  brougham  door  closed 
upon  her  husband  and  herself ;  *  I  am  sure 
you  had  a  horrid  hunt  for  us — and  what  a 
crowd !  I  was  thankful  to  get  out  of  it. 
The  heat  distressed  me.  It  was  so  unlucky 
that  the  porter  should  have  let  you  go  by.' 

Sibylla  stopped  short,  for  something  in 
her  husband's  movements  bespoke  an  angry 
man. 

'  You  are  not  vexed  ^ '  she  said,  laying 
her  hand  on  his. 

Woe  to  the  husband  who  rejects  the 
wife's  offer  of  conciliation — the  proffered 


2o8  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


forgiveness  of  his  ill-temper.  A  word  of 
affection  at  this  moment — a  gesture — a  tone 
of  kindness,  would  have  sealed  the  desired 
peace-making.  But  Montcalm  was  in  no 
mood  for  peace.  His  heart  was  aching. 
Life  seemed  very  bitter.  If  he  was  to 
answer  truthfully,  he  zvas  vexed,  sorely 
vexed.  Worst  of  all,  he  knew  that  he  had 
shown  his  vexation.  He  had  been  guilty 
of  an  undignified  display  of  ill-temper. 
He  was  out  of  sorts  with  life,  with  himself, 
his  wife,  his  fellow-men.  Sibylla's  sweet- 
ness took  him  by  surprise — embarrassed 
him.  He  was  not  prepared  for  an  inter- 
change of  affectionate  speeches.  His 
Englishman's  awkwardness  beset  him.  In 
an  evil  moment  for  his  own  happiness,  for 
Sibylla's,  he  showed  himself  cold,  uncordial, 
unresponsive.  The  sight  of  his  wife  sitting, 
listening  with  evident  interest  to  Amersham 
— Amersham  talking  to  her  with  ease  and 
freedom,  had  sunk  into  his  soul,  exasper- 
ated him.  Why  would  not  his  own  talk 
flow  with  equal  ease  .^  Why  did  their  con- 
versation halt.'^  Whose  was  the  fault  .^ 
Why  now  did  he  find  it  difficult  to  speak } 


XV  The  duarrel  209 

There  was  a  few  seconds'  pause  before 
he  was  ready  with  his  reply — a  few  seconds : 
but  for  how  many  thoughts,  fears,  sugges- 
tions, influences  will  not  a  second's  space 
suffice  ?  That  momentary  silence  was 
eloquent,  fatally  eloquent.  Sibylla's  heart 
began  to  beat  quicker.  She  longed  for  her 
husband  to  speak.  A  pang  of  resentment 
at  his  injustice,  his  obduracy,  his  unre- 
sponsiveness shot  into  her  soul.  She  was 
doing  all  that  love  could  prompt ;  why  was 
he  silent  ?    At  last  the  answer  came. 

'  It  is  not  worth  talking  about,'  Mont- 
calm said  in  a  tone  of  sullen  displeasure ; 
'  I  was  bored,  of  course.  You,  at  any  rate, 
escaped  boredom.' 

Sibylla  withdrew  her  hand  with  a  sort  of 
horror.  It  was  as  though  her  husband  had 
struck  her.  The  cold,  dry  tone,  the  measured 
rudeness,  was  as  bad  as  a  blow.  She  tried  to 
make  light  to  herself  of  the  rebuff — but 
how  vain  the  attempt !  Each  instant  the 
pain  grew  more  acute.  In  silence  she  sat, 
thankful  for  the  darkness  that  hid  her  face 
from  her  companion. 

Equally    vain   was    Montcalm's    secret 

VOL.  I  p 


2IO  Sibylla  chap. 

wish  that  he  could  recall  his  cross  reply, 
recall  or  amend  it.  His  angry  mood  held 
him  tongue-tied.  Sibylla's  silence  was  the 
worst  reproof.  He  could  not  bring  himself 
to  speak.  He  could  not  judge  how  his 
words  had  sounded  to  Sibylla's  ear.  Had 
it  been  a  declaration  of  war?  A  few 
minutes  later  they  arrived  at  home. 
Montcalm  helped  his  wife  out  of  the 
carriage.  Sibylla  passed  hurriedly  across 
the  hall  and  went  upstairs.  She  needed  to 
be  alone.  She  was  dreadfully  perturbed. 
Silent,  reserved,  undemonstrative  as  her 
husband  had,  of  late,  increasingly  become, 
he  had  never  before  been  guilty  of  overt 
unkindness.  To-night  he  had  been  un- 
kind and  unreasonable.  He  had  put  him- 
self wrong  alike  with  his  wife  and  his 
friend.  His  displeasure  was  irrational. 
Amersham  could  not  be  charged  with  any- 
thing to  which  the  most  exacting  upholder 
of  conjugal  rights  could  take  exception. 
He  had  been  merely  polite.  He  had  taken 
some  trouble  to  promote  Sibylla's  comfort. 
Their  conversation,  it  so  happened,  had 
been  of  the  kind  that  all  the  world  would 


XV  The  Quarrel  211 

have  been  welcome  to  hear.  Montcalm, 
instead  of  being  grateful  for  a  small  act  of 
kindness  shown  to  his  wife,  had  behaved 
like  a  bear.  Sibylla  had  felt  it,  had  felt 
ashamed  of  it.  She  had  now  something 
more  of  which  to  feel  ashamed — ashamed 
and  aggrieved.  She  sat  in  her  room,  rest- 
less, miserable,  with  no  thought  of  sleep, 
hoping  that  her  husband  would  come  and 
be  reconciled,  hesitating  whether  it  would 
be  well  to  go  to  him.  She  sat  on  in  soli- 
tude. She  heard  his  step  on  the  stairs. 
He  passed  onward  to  his  room.  It  was 
clear  that  he  did  not  intend  to  come. 
Sibylla  sat  and  reviewed  her  married  life  : 
the  retrospect  was  painful.  There  had 
been  some  great  disappointments  :  she  had 
tried  to  ignore  them,  but  now  they  were 
not  to  be  ignored.  She  had  dreamed  of  an 
ideal  union  of  hearts — in  which  the  most 
absolute  confidence  should  reign.  How  far 
was  this  ideal  from  being  attained  !  Con- 
fidence, perfect  and  complete,  was  the  last 
word  which  would  fitly  describe  her  hus- 
band's attitude  towards  her.  She  knew 
that  he  had  some  secret,  safe  locked  in  the 


2 1 2  Sibylla  chap. 

recesses  of  his  heart,  which  his  wife's  eye 
was  forbidden  to  read.  He  chose  to  live 
alone.  He  went  his  way,  by  himself,  in  no 
need  of  help  from  her,  with  no  wish  for 
friendly  confidence,  consultation,  advice. 
Sibylla  was  pining  for  sociability.  Such 
companionship  was  the  thing  which  her 
husband  seemed  least  able  to  give  :  he 
himself  did  not  care  about  it ;  he  could 
not  understand  the  need  of  it  in  another. 
The  presence  of  a  companion  disturbed  the 
true  balance  of  his  thoughts  ;  it  agitated 
the  still  atmosphere  in  which  a  logical  con- 
clusion could  be  worked  out  with  mathe- 
matical precision.  That  was  the  way,  Mont- 
calm felt  positive,  in  which  a  sensible  man 
should  think.  The  intrusion  of  a  woman's 
temperament — eager,  sensitive,  sentimental, 
nervous — was  a  fatal  disturbance.  The 
highest  work,  experience  had  taught  him, 
must  be  done  in  solitude.  So  Sibylla's 
attempts  to  share  her  husband's  thoughts 
and  opinions  had  constantly  been  repelled. 
Husband  and  wife  lived  in  separate  worlds. 
Married  life  must,  it  had  become  clear  to 
Sibylla,    mean    something    very    different 


XV  The  Qiuarrel  2 1 3 

from,  something  very  inferior  to,  her  girl- 
hood's ideah  She  had  borne  the  disappoint- 
ment with  fortitude,  good  nature,  even 
cheerfulness.  Now  it  seemed  as  if  even 
the  outward  semblance  of  affection  was 
to  disappear. 

Sibylla  was  pining  for  sympathetic  com- 
panionship !  One  danger  which  threatens 
the  man  who  resolves  to  ignore  such  a 
craving  on  his  wife's  part,  is  that  some 
sympathetic  companion  will,  probably, 
be  forthcoming,  ready  with  the  boon  which 
he  refuses  to  confer.  This  danger  now 
threatened  the  Montcalms.  Amersham  was 
above  everything  companionable.  His  in- 
tellect was  of  the  sociable  order.  It  would 
not  work  in  solitude.  That  which  Mont- 
calm regarded  as  an  intrusion  was  to  him 
a  help.  He  needed  to  test  his  views  by 
comparison  with  other  people's — by  the 
concurrence  or  disagreement  of  a  friendly 
critic.  He  liked  to  place  an  argument 
before  Sibylla,  to  see  how  it  struck  her, 
to  consult  her  on  questions  of  expediency, 
justice,  or  taste.  Would  such-and-such  a 
reply  be  the  right  one  in  the  circumstances 


214  Sibylla  chap. 

of  the  case?  Was  this  the  wise  line  to 
take?  What  would  be  felt  about  it? 
What  would  the  best  minds  feel  about  it  ? 
Sibylla's  view  on  such  topics  was  to  him  an 
important  guide.  Such  requests  for  advice 
are  the  choicest  form  of  flattery, — the  subt- 
lest, the  pleasantest,  the  most  persuasive. 
From  such  topics  as  these,  how  easy  to 
pass  to  problems  of  a  more  personal  interest 
— questions  affecting  life,  its  aims,  its 
limitations,  its  reverses — the  small  philo- 
sophy of  existence  which  each  individual 
constructs  for  himself!  Such  interchange 
of  thought  leads  naturally  to  great  intimacy 
— intimacy  which  grows  silently  and 
quickly  before  one  is  aware  of  it.  Sibylla 
found  that  she  and  Amersham  had  be- 
come very  intimate.  She  valued  the 
intimacy.  It  gave  a  new  pleasure,  a  new 
charm  to  existence,  a  new  interest. 
Nothing  is  so  interesting  as  to  come 
into  real  contact  with  another  mind — to 
read  another's  character,  to  feel  that  one 
can  influence  another  person's  action,  that 
one  goes  for  something  in  his  thoughts. 
This  interest    had    become    Sibylla's;  and 


XV 


The  Quarrel  215 

now  her  husband  not  only  declined  to  share 
any  such  interest  with  her,  but  was  driving 
her  by  actual  unkindness  to  find  it  in  the 
society  of  the  person  most  capable  of  arous- 
ing it.  Charles's  affection  had  sunk  to  so 
low  an  ebb  that  he  could  bear  to  be  unkind, 
to  find  in  the  petty  mishaps  of  daily  life 
material  for  unkindness. 

To  how  critical  a  stage  had  love  been 
brought !  Sibylla  was  in  a  despairing 
mood.  Married  life,  with  its  privileges  of 
love,  confidence,  and  tenderness  denied — 
the  dismal,  decent,  conventional  relation  of 
two  unsympathetic  natures,  hiding  their 
mutual  indifference  from  the  eyes  of  man- 
kind under  the  cloak  of  cold  civility — was 
this  to  be  her  doom  ?  Would  such  a  life 
be  endurable  ? 


CHAPTER   XVI 

A   BAD  story's   END 

Till  down  upon  the  filthy  ground  I  dropped, 
And  tore  the  violets  to  get  the  worms  : 
'  Worms  !  worms  ! '  was  all  my  cry. 

There  is  something  in  Eastern  life,  it  has 
been  often  said,  which  exercises  a  deteriorat- 
ing effect  upon  the  European  character. 
Nowhere  is  such  deterioration  more  pain- 
fully conspicuous  than  in  the  Englishman 
whose  crimes  or  misfortunes  have  sunk  him 
to  the  level  of  what  his  countrymen  in 
India  denounce  as  a  *  loafer.'  He  is  the 
lost  spirit  of  the  ruling  race,  deserted  by 
all  the  wholesome  influences  which  mem- 
bership of  a  ruling  race  exercises  upon  its 
members.  He  has  lost  prestige  ;  he  has 
abandoned  respectability  ;  his  degradation 
has  been   exhibited  to  the  humblest  of  a 


CHAP.  XVI       A  Bad  Story  s  End  217 

community,  which  he  regards  as  socially, 
morally,  and  physically  far  below  himself. 
Henceforth  no  further  humiliation  is  con- 
ceivable. Shame  has  emptied  her  vials 
upon  his  head.  He  is  steeped  in  disgrace  : 
he  is  clawed  by  fierce  necessity.  He  has 
wrung  whatever  may  be  extorted  from  the 
compassionateness  of  his  countrymen,  the 
credulity  of  natives  too  ignorant  to  gauge 
the  fraud  of  his  pretensions.  He  has 
begged,  bullied,  and  lied  as  opportunity  gave 
a  chance  of  the  pittance  which  will  stave  ofF 
starvation  for  another  day.  If  man  spares 
him,  the  cruel  climate  is  unsparing.  The 
fierce,  pitiless  sun  fills  him  with  agony  and 
drives  him,  panting  and  exhausted,  to  the 
first  covert  which  presents  itself.  The 
tropical  downpour  drenches  his  aching 
bones  :  the  night  frosts  pierce  him  to  the 
very  marrow,  and  send  him  out  shivering 
and  miserable  into  the  chilly  dawn,  to  begin 
another  day  of  bootless  struggle  for  life. 
Week  by  week  his  shattered  frame  be- 
comes less  capable  of  resistance  to  baneful 
physical  surroundings — surroundings  which 
strong  men,  instinct  with  hope  and  purpose. 


21 8  Sibylla  chap. 

would  scarcely  dare  to  face.  Malaria  lays 
its  deadly  hand  upon  him,  and  the  in- 
effectual struggle  draws  to  its  close. 
Fortunate  if,  at  the  last  dread  moment, 
some  friendly  compatriot's  hand  can  be 
found  to  hold  a  cup  to  dying  lips,  and  to 
breathe  into  ears,  where  already  all  things 
sound  faintly,  some  pious  thought  of 
England  and  of  home. 

Such  was  the  plight  of  an  Englishman 
who  lay,  one  summer  night,  in  a  wretched 
native  hostelry  in  the  suburbs  of  Faustabad, 
one  of  the  great  military  stations  of  Upper 
India.  There  was  a  crowd  of  natives 
around  him  ;  for  Faustabad  is  a  busy  place, 
a  centre  of  a  great  industry  in  corn  and 
seeds,  the  meeting-point  of  many  official 
threads  which  the  spider-like  industry  of 
the  English  administration  has  woven  thick 
in  every  direction  across  the  country. 
Hither,  at  the  appointed  seasons,  come 
governors  and  generals,  commissioners 
and  judges,  and  with  them  the  satellites, 
which  orb  in  splendour, — only  less  im- 
pressive than  their  own, — around  the 
greater  luminaries  of  the   official    heaven. 


XVI  A  Bad  Story's  End  219 

Below  the  satellites  comes  a  vast  array  of 
humbler  ministrants  to  the  many  necessities, 
in  the  way  of  pomp,  business,  or  comfort, 
of  the  Anglo-Indian  dignitary.  Faustabad, 
accordingly,  abounds  in  crowds. 

There  is  a  famous  shrine,  too,  where, 
beneath  an  immemorial  peepul  tree,  the 
pious  pilgrim  loves  to  worship,  and  a  sacred 
river,  in  which,  when  the  moon  moves  into 
the  proper  quarter,  and  the  solemn  moment 
has  come,  it  is  bliss  to  bathe,  and  a  multi- 
tudinous rabble  plunge  into  the  well- 
churned,  turgid  flood,  happy  in  the  hope  of 
a  propitiated  deity  and  a  blissful  hereafter. 

So  the  Faustabad  bazaars  were  lively  with 
throngs  of  traders  and  customers,  holiday- 
m^akers  and  devotees,  and  the  Serai — the 
bequest  of  a  charitable  corn-merchant  and 
money-lender  to  the  scene  of  his  prosperity 
— was  in  constant  request.  It  was  crowded 
just  now  with  groups  of  travellers,  cooking 
their  evening  meal,  tending  their  bullocks, 
or  pouring  out  the  stream  of  talk  that  flows 
— unexhausted  and  inexhaustible,  where 
natives  congregate — through  the  livelong 
night.      On   one   side   were   long   rows   of 


220  Sibylla  chap. 

bullock-carts,  the  cattle  tethered  in  front 
of  them,  busily  munching  their  forage. 
Further  away  a  string  of  Cabul  camels  lay 
chewing  the  cud  and  contemplating  sadly 
the  burthens,  under  which  they  had  groaned 
to-day  and  would  groan  again  to-morrow. 
They  might  well  groan,  for  the  day  had 
been  one  long  sultry  blaze,  and  the  night 
had  scarcely  brought  relief  The  air  was 
heavy  with  foetid,  sickening  odours. 
Everything — walls,  trees,  and  soil — was 
radiating  the  heat  absorbed  through  the 
long  burning  hours.  The  moon,  blazing 
in  a  cloudless  sky,  seemed  actually  to 
scorch  :  huge  bats  flapped  lazily  among  the 
boughs  of  the  peepul  trees,  which  over- 
shadowed the  scene.  A  thick  cloud  of  dust 
and  smoke — offspring  of  a  sultry,  bustling 
day — hung  overhead,  like  a  pall  across 
some  city  of  the  doomed.  Here  and  there, 
wherever  a  damp,  cool  spot  was  to  be 
found,  a  dog  lay  panting,  his  hind  legs 
stretched  limply  out  as  if  in  utter  ex- 
haustion. The  ground  was  thickly  strewn 
with  recumbent  human  forms — sleeping,  or 
that  seemed  to  sleep,  save  when,  now  and 


XVI  A  Bad  Story's  End  221 

again,  they  tossed  with  weary  gestures  of 
unease,  or  sought,  with  little  wooden  fans, 
a  momentary  respite  from  the  glowing  air. 
The  weary  hours  crept  on,  the  groups 
of  talkers,  one  by  one,  subsided  into  silence 
and  rest.  The  embers  of  the  cooking  fires 
died  out  ;  the  moon  was  sinking  in  the 
heaven  ;  a  new  gloom  settled  over  the  scene  ; 
darkness  was  gathering  upon  the  earth. 
All  slept — all  but  the  Englishman,  whom 
sleep  refused  to  release,  for  a  moment,  from 
his  horrid  surroundings, — his  pangs  of  body 
and  soul.  No  sleep  for  him,  but  raging 
fever,  raging  heat,  raging  thirst,  parched 
lips,  aching  limbs,  and  the  dreadful  prostra- 
tion of  an  exhausted  frame.  His  senses 
were  acutely  awake  ;  he  listened  anxiously 
for  the  sound  of  a  horse's  feet  —  the 
horse  that  might  bring  him  aid,  comfort, 
and  deliverance.  He  had  managed,  that 
evening,  to  send  a  message  to  the  station 
surgeon — a  message  that  an  European  was 
dying  in  the  Serai  and  implored  his  help. 
There  were  a  hundred  chances  that  such  a 
message  would  never  reach  its  destination, 
would  not  be  correctly  delivered  ;  for  it  had 


222  Sibylla  chap. 

to  pass  through  several  native  messengers, 
the  barrier  of  venal  underlings  and 
servants,  hard  to  surmount  without  the  aid 
of  gold.  It  might  not  be  understood  ;  it 
might  not  be  attended  to.  On  the  other 
hand,  it  might.  There  was  the  one  chance 
that  the  surgeon  would  come,  and  on  that 
chance  the  sick  man's  hopes  were  hanging. 
He  listened,  hour  after  hour,  for  the  much- 
wished-for  footfall.  Night  filled  his  ear 
with  other  sounds.  Some  pariah  dogs  in 
distant  villages  were  howling,  in  hateful 
response,  at  the  moon.  A  pack  of  jackals 
swept,  like  an  escaped  demon-troop,  across 
the  open  side  of  the  Serai.  Their  chorus 
sounded  satanic,  sad  with  the  misery  of  suffer- 
ing souls.  Is  there  another  sound  in  nature 
of  such  unutterable,  abysmal  melancholy.^ 
The  sounds  fell  upon  Frank  Montcalm's 
dying  ears  like  the  knell  of  doom.  For  he 
was  dying.  He  had  often  been  near  to  death, 
but  never  so  close  as  now.  Excess,  misery, 
exposure,  delirium  tremens,  and  now  fever, 
had  at  last  done  their  work.  He  had  made 
his  way  from  Sydney  to  Madras  as  one  of 
the   grooms  in  attendance   on   a   cargo  of 


XVI 


A  Bad  Story  s  End  223 


Australian  horses — had  eluded  the  local 
authorities,  who  would  have  enforced  his 
reshipment  to  Australia,  and  had  tramped 
across  India,  supporting  a  precarious  exist- 
ence by  such  wretched  expedients,  in  the 
way  of  swagger,  cringing,  beggary  or 
imposture,  as  fortune  threw  in  his  way. 
Now  the  end  was  come.  He  could  struggle 
no  more.  His  one  hope,  his  one  desire  was 
to  find  some  countryman  who  would  be- 
friend him  in  his  last  and  sorest  emergency 
— would  see  him  through  the  last  terrible 
hours  which  still  remained  to  him,  say  a 
kindly  word  before  he  died,  and  carry  a 
last  farewell,  a  message  of  peace,  a  cry  for 
forgiveness  to  his  brother  in  England. 

Dawn  began  to  break;  hour  by  hour 
the  fever  gathered  force,  and  burnt  with 
fiercer  heat.  The  native  lad  whom  the  sick 
man  had  sent  with  the  message  had  delivered 
it,  as  best  he  could,  to  one  of  the  '  Doctor 
Sahib's '  subordinates.  No  answer  had  come 
through  the  long,  long  night  of  weary 
watching,  of  baffled  expectancy,  the  heart- 
sickening  chill  of  hope  deferred.  And  now 
Frank  Montcalm's  thoughts  began  to  travel, 


224  Sibylla  chap. 

with  dreadful  rapidity,  dreadful  distinctness, 
over  his  past  life — a  horrid  retrospect  of 
failure,  disgrace,  dishonour,  crime.  He  was 
at  home  again,  and  appeasing  his  father's 
wrath  at  some  boyish  misdoing  by  an  excuse 
— the  first  that  offered.  How  easy  to  find 
an  excuse  good  enough  for  that  indulgent 
tribunal !  He  was  with  Lizzie  Marsh 
again — poor  Lizzie  !  What  had  become  of 
her.^  Dead,  perhaps,  and  better  so.  It 
had  been  a  bad  business  all  along.  How 
ill  she  was  when  the  child  was  born,  the 
little  ailing  baby,  which  died  in  her  arms 
as  she  lay,  half  dead  herself  with  sorrow, 
suffering,  and  the  shame  of  dishonoured 
motherhood  !  It  was  no  bastard,  however, 
on  which  her  mother's  tears  were  shed,  for 
he  had  yielded  to  her  entreaties — her 
terror  of  living  on  in  sin — her  passionate 
prayer  to  him  to  save  her  child  from  dis- 
honour. He  had  at  the  last  moment  married 
her ;  and  much  good  it  had  done  her  !  He 
had  left  her,  like  the  brute  he  was.  Nor 
was  she  the  only  woman  he  had  deserted. 
What  was  the  good  of  thinking  of  it  ^  Yes  ; 
but  how  not  to  think  !     The  sick  man  shut 


XVI  A  Bad  Story's  End  11 K^ 

his  eyes,  as  if  to  shut  out  unwelcome  sights  ; 
but  the  objects  which  memory,  cruelly  acute, 
conjured  up  before  his  mind's  eye,  were  not 
so  easily  shut  out.  A  horde  of  accusing 
spirits  flocked  in  upon  him ;  each  with  its 
burthen  of  shame,  fraud,  cruelty;  each  crying 
'  Guilty  !  guilty  I '  Conscience  was  roused 
at  last,  and  roused  into  a  mood  that  would 
not,  as  so  often  heretofore,  be  silenced  or 
gainsaid.  It  was  in  vain  to  try  to  think 
of  something  else.  What  else  was  left  to 
think  of?  He  saw  his  life  lyins;  out  behind 
him  in  dreadful  distinctness — all  selt- 
deceptions,  illusions,  palliations,  convenient 
forgettings  swept  mercilessly  away,  like 
leaves  that  hide  a  ruin's  outline.  The 
ruined,  wasted,  dishonoured  life  stood,  stark 
and  clear,  a  loathsome  sight  to  eyes  already 
dim  with  death  !  appalling  record  to  a 
despairing  soul  I 

Then  his  thoughts  travelled  back  to  a  re- 
moter region,  a  period,  which  had  so  long  and 
so  utterly  passed  away  from  his  memory  that 
its  recurrence  now  seemed  like  an  apparition 
from  another  world,  from  another  person's 

VOL.  I  Q 


226  Sibylla 


CHAP. 


existence — a  period  of  innocence,  happiness 
and  sweet  maternal  pettings.  A  mother's 
eyes  were  looking  down  upon  him,  full  of 
delight,  tenderness,  adoring  love.  A  voice 
that  breathed  only  benedictions — a  gentle 
hand  that  caressed  him  as  no  other  ever  had 
— a  bosom  where  he  had  nestled  safe  from 
the  troubles  of  the  world  outside — dear 
hiding-place  where  his  baby  sorrows  had 
been  cried  to  rest.  How  often,  as  a  boy, 
had  he  gone  to  that  good  mother  for  aid 
or  consolation,  and  there  forgotten  his 
troubles.  He  could  see  himself  again  bury- 
ing his  face  in  her  lap  in  some  paroxysm  of 
childish  grief :  he  felt  her  tender,  caressing 
touch.  If  he  could  only  go  to  her  now 
and  be  nursed  and  petted  and  forgiven,  and 
be  a  child  again  with  life — innocent,  un- 
soiled,  unspoilt,  the  trailing  brightness  of 
Heaven  still  glorifying  it — lying  before 
him,  instead  of  the  ghastly  wreck  that 
lay  behind !  What  a  contrast  between  now 
and  the  time  when  that  dear  form  had 
passed  away,  and  with  it  Frank's  best  chance 
of  a  happy  and  virtuous  life ! 

The  native  lad  sat  by  the  sick  man's 


XVI  A  Bad  Story  s  End  227 

side,  and  from  time  to  time  moistened 
his  lips  with  water.  He  was  getting 
frightened,  for  the  Englishman  was 
evidently  mad  :  his  wild  ravings,  his 
staring  eyes,  his  cries  and  groans  and 
oaths,  his  frantic  gestures,  were  proofs  of 
madness.  It  was  dangerous  to  be  near 
him  ;  it  was  dangerous  to  go  away.  The 
boy's  eyes  were  heavy  with  fatigue,  but  the 
madman  gave  him  no  chance  of  sleep.  By 
this  time  it  was  broad  daylight,  and  the 
Serai  was  all  astir.  Frank  Montcalm  lay 
in  the  verandah,  alive  and  only  just  alive 
— prostrate  with  exhaustion,  too  exhausted 
to  have  any  but  a  faint  consciousness,  when 
the  surgeon  came  driving  in  to  the  Serai 
and  was  presently  kneeling  over  him,  and 
feeling  his  pulse.  His  attention  was 
arrested  by  the  long,  fine  hand,  which 
bore  no  marks  of  honest  toil.  It  told 
of  a  tragic  fall  from  better  things. 

'  He  is  mad,*  the  boy  said  with  un- 
emotional conciseness ;  '  mad  since  the 
moon  set  this  morning  :  he  is  dying.  I 
gave  him  water.     The  fault  is  not  mine.* 

'  He   will    be   dead    if   he    stays    here 


228  Sibylla  chap. 

another  hour,'  said  the  surgeon  :  '  go  and 
fetch  a  dhooHe.  He  must  go  to  the 
Infirmary.     Be  quick,  I  will  give  you  pice.' 

The  boy  ran  off  on  his  behest,  and 
presently  the  dhoolie  -  bearers  —  nimble, 
fragile,  and  intended  by  nature,  one 
would  have  guessed,  for  anything  rather 
than  beasts  of  burden  —  came  staggering 
in,  grunting  rhythmically  under  the  pole, 
which  their  bare  shoulders  supported. 
Frank  Montcalm  gave  but  slight  signs  of 
life  as  he  was  lifted  up  and  borne  away.  *  I 
will  drive  on  and  have  all  things  ready,'  the 
surgeon  said,  as  they  emerged  from  the  Serai; 
*  come  quickly  :  there  is  no  time  to  lose.' 

Some  days  later  Frank  Montcalm  lay  in 
a  cool  room  in  the  Infirmary — bloodless, 
emaciated,  without  motion  or  power  to 
move,  but  still  alive.  The  surgeon  had 
befriended  him,  and  spared  neither  time  nor 
trouble  in  helping  him  to  recovery.  It 
was  long  since  the  sick  man  had  fared  so 
well  ;  longer  still  since  any  one  had  regarded 
him  with  anything  but  fear,  hatred  or 
contempt.  It  was  a  new  sensation — new 
and  indescribably  delightful. 


XVI  A  Bad  Story  s  End  229 

*  You  are  the  first  man  in  India,' 
Montcalm  said  one  morning,  as  the 
surgeon  paid  him  his  usual  visit,  *  that  has 
not  treated  me  like  a  dog.  It  was  thanks 
to  you  I  did  not  die  that  morning  in  the 
Serai.  You  have  been  very  good  to  me. 
You  would  not  be  if  you  knew  all.' 

'  I  know  that  you  are  very  ill, — ill  and 
destitute,'  said  the  doctor  ;  '  that  is  all  that 
concerns  me.  I  want  to  know  nothing 
more.' 

*  But  I  want  to  tell  you,'  said  the  other ; 
*  I  have  sunk  low,  but  I  was  born  a  gentle- 
man. I  am  son  of  Mr.  Montcalm  of 
Frampton.  Charles  Montcalm,  member 
for  Belhaven,  is  my  younger  brother.  I 
want  you  to  take  him  a  message.  Say  that 
he  has  heard  the  last  of  Frank.  He  will  be 
glad  to  hear  that.  I  shall  trouble  and  dis- 
grace him  no  more.  Have  me  decently 
buried,  doctor,  and  ask  Charles  to  pay  for  it, 
and  to  make  a  present  to  the  Hospital. 
Thanks  to  it  and  you,  these  have  been  the 
pleasantest  days  I  have  spent  since — I  don't 
know  when.  I  am  dying,  all  the  same  ;  I 
feel  it.' 

VOL.  I  Q  2 


230  Sibylla 


CHAr. 


'  Don't  talk  about  dying,  man,'  said  the 
other  ;  '  lie  still  and  give  yourself  a  chance. 
But  whatever  happens,  I  will  do  what  you 
ask  me  :  Charles  Montcalm  of  Frampton, 
you  said  ? ' 

'  Yes,'  said  the  sick  man  ;  '  and  give  him 
this — this  old  ring;  he  will  know  it  fast 
enough.  Father  gave  us  both  rings  when 
we  were  schoolboys.  It  is  my  mother's 
hair — I  wore  it  round  my  neck  for  luck. 
Give  it  to  Charles,  and  tell  him  it  was  all 
I  had  to  leave  him.  Bid  him  forgive  all 
the  wrongs  I  did  him.' 

After  this  the  sick  man  grew  very 
communicative.  The  doctor's  visit  was 
his  thread  of  communication  with  the 
outside  world  after  which  he  still  hankered. 
He  loved  a  chat,  and  the  surgeon  was 
good-natured  in  gratifying  the  invalid's 
whim.  It  was  better  for  him  to  talk,  to 
listen,  than  to  lie  all  day  in  silence  and 
solitude,  busied  with  his  own  thoughts. 
Gradually  he  confided  to  his  kind  listener 
many  passages  of  his  life,  narrow  escapes, 
strange  adventures,  unedifying  episodes  of 
lawlessness  and  profligacy.     Amongst  the 


XVI 


A  Bad  Story's  End  231 


rest  he  told  of  his  escape  from  the 
Eldorado  Mine.  '  That  was  a  wild  time,' 
he  said ;  '  no  mistake  about  it — a  wild  time 
and  bad.  We  were  a  bad  lot,  all  of  us  ; 
each  man  had  a  black  mark  for  something. 
I  had  run  away  from  my  wife.  I  left  her 
at  New  Wigan.  I  had  married  her  under 
a  false  name, — Fairfield,  one  of  my  father's 
farms.  I  am  sorry  now  that  I  did  it.  I 
was  sorry  from  the  first  ;  but  I  fancied 
her,  and  I  could  get  her  in  no  other  way. 
Anyhow  she  made  me  sorry  before  she  had 
done  with  me.  She  was  a  fine  girl,  and 
very  handsome,  but  a  perfect  devil  in 
temper  ;  drink  made  her  ten  times  more 
devilish.  At  last  I  could  bear  it  no 
longer  ;  I  heard  of  the  mine  and  I  went  off. 
It  was  a  low  trick,  for  she  was  near  being 
a  mother  ;  but  I  was  doing  no  good,  and 
living  with  her  was  a  hell  on  earth.  On 
my  way  to  the  mine  I  had  my  usual  luck, 
and  fell  in  with  a  man  who  had  known  me 
in  England  and  bawled  out  my  real  name 
before  a  room  full  of  listeners.  It  was  no 
good  to  try  to  conceal  it,  so  I  became 
Frank    Montcalm    again.       I    was    doing 


232  Sibylla  chap. 

pretty  well,  and  was  meaning  to  send  my 
wife  something ;  but  I  got  into  trouble  and 
had  to  bolt.  Since  then  I  have  been  almost 
always  nearly  starving.  I  have  heard  no 
word  of  her,  or  her  child,  if  she  had  one.' 

*  And  what  was  the  trouble  you  had  to 
bolt  for  ^ '  asked  the  surgeon,  gently  en- 
couraging his  patient's  flow  of  talk. 

Montcalm's  face  darkened.  His  voice 
dropped. 

*  Did  you  ever  kill  a  man  ? '  he  said.  '  I 
did  once.  I  don't  mind  telling  you  now. 
I  am  not  worth  hanging,  and  you  will  not 
betray  me.  It  sounds  nasty,  doesn't  it  ^ 
and  looks  nasty,  I  can  tell  you,  when  you 
have  to  face  the  man  you  have  killed,  alone, 
and  to  handle  him  as  I  had.  His  eyes 
were  open.  I  often  see  them  now.  There 
was  some  blood  on  his  cheek.  This  was 
how  it  was.  There  was  a  row  one  night 
in  an  old  store,  two  miles  from  the  Mine, 
where  a  few  of  us  used  to  go  to  drink  and 
gamble.  I  was  more  than  half  drunk,  and 
had  lost  every  farthing  I  had  earned. 
There  was  a  man  there  who  kept  angering 
me.     He  had  won  most  that  night  ;    we 


XVI 


A  Bad  Story's  End  233 


came  to  fierce  words,  he  drew  his  pistol  and 
was  covering  me.  I  shot  him  in  the  face. 
He  fell  back  with  a  groan  and  never  moved 
again.  When  the  others  saw  he  was  dead, 
they  all  scuttled.  I  don't  blame  them.  It 
was  putting  your  neck  in  the  halter  to  stay. 
But  I  stayed.  I  had  not  a  farthing  to  fly 
with.  Then  I  remembered  what  a  run  of 
luck  the  dead  man  had  been  having.  I 
took  his  coat  and  hat  and  his  waistcoat. 
His  pockets  were  full  of  money  ;  I  took  it. 
I  left  my  own  clothes.  The  jury  found,  I 
read  in  the  papers,  that  it  was  Frank 
Montcalm  who  had  been  murdered.  But 
Frank  Montcalm  was  making  his  way  across 
the  mountains  to  Frisco.  I  was  nearly 
starved !  But  when  I  got  to  Frisco,  the  dead 
man's  money  served  me  to  get  a  passage  to 
Sydney.  There  I  soon  lost  all  I  had  in  a 
gambling  hell.  I  worked  my  way  from 
Sydney  to  Madras  with  a  cargo  of  horses. 
That  was  a  rough  job.  There  was  a  storm. 
We  had  to  throw  a  hundred  of  them  over- 
board. The  police  in  Madras  got  hold  of 
me  ;  they  were  going  to  send  me  back  to 
Sydney  ;  but  I  slipped  through  their  fingers, 


234  Sibylla  chap,  xvi 

and  tramped  my  way  across  India.  It  is  a 
hell  of  a  country,  when  you  have  to  beg  your 
way.  Twice  I  had  sunstroke.  I  got  drunk 
on  native  spirits  whenever  I  had  the  chance. 
At  last  I  came  to  ground  here  ;  and  you 
have  been  the  good  Samaritan  to  me.  Now 
you  know  my  story.' 

A  week  later  Frank  Montcalm  took  a 
turn  for  the  worse,  and  next  day  at  sunrise 
Surgeon  Crowder  attended,  as  only  mourner, 
at  a  very  humble  ceremonial,  while  the 
body  of  an  English  loafer  was  deposited  in 
one  of  those  receptacles  which  are  to  be 
seen^  ready  dug,  in  most  Indian  cemeteries, 
awaiting  the  requirements  of  the  first  ap- 
plicant. The  ground  closed  over  the  frail- 
ties and  misfortunes  of  Frank  Montcalm. 
Surgeon  Crowder,  who  was  just  starting  for 
his  furlough  in  England,  kept  a  note  of  the 
name  and  packed  up  the  ring,  in  case  Mr. 
Montcalm  of  Frampton  should  care  to  be 
reminded  of  a  fallen  brother. 

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The  Aspern  Papers.- The  Tragic 
Muse. 

ANNIE  KEARY.— Castle  Daly.— A 
York  and  a  Lancaster  Rose.— Old- 
bury.— A  Doubting  Heart.— Janet's 
Home.— Nations  around  Israel. 

P.  KENNEDY.— Legendary  Fictions 
of  the  Irish  Celts. 

HENRY  KINGSLEY.— Tales  of  Old 
Travel. 


MARGARET    LEE.— Faithful     and 

Unfaithful. 
AMY  LEVY.— Reuben  Sachs. 
S.  R.  LYSAGHT.— The  Marplot. 
LORD      LYTTON.— The      Ring     of 

M.  M'LENNAN.— Muckle  Jock,  and 

other  Stories. 
LUCAS  MALET.— Mrs.  Lorimer. 
GUSTAVE      MASSON.— A      French 

Dictionary. 
A.  B.  MITFORD.— Tales  of  Old  Japan. 
D.      CHRISTIE      MURRAY.— Aunt 

Rachel.— John    Vale's   Guardian.— 

Schwartz.— The  Weaker  Vessel, 
C.  MURRAY  and  H.  HERMAN.— He 

Fell  among  Thieves. 
Major       GAM  BIER      PARRY,-The 

Story  of  Dick. 
W.  C.  RHOADES.— John  Trevennick. 
W.  CLARK  RUSSELL.— Marooned.— 

A  Strange  Elopement. 
FLORA   A.    STEEL.— Miss   Stuart's 

Legacy. 
MARCHESA      THEODOLL— Under 

Pressure. 
"  TIMES"  Summaries.— Biographies  Of 

Eminent  Persons.     In  4  vols. 
"TIMES"    Annual   Summaries,     In 

2  vols. 
Mrs.       HUMPHRY        WARD,— MisS 

Bretherton. 
MONTAGU   WILLIAMS,    Q.C.— 

Leaves  of  a  Life.— Later  Leaves.— 

Round  London :  down  East,  and  up 

West.  —  Hogan,     M.P.  —  Tim,  —  The 

New  Antigone. 


MACMILLAN  AND   CO.,    LONDON. 


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